Immediate.
Possessive.
And strong enough that I physically stiffened.
No.
Absolutely not.
This little relationship—no, not that, but whatever you called it—was already spiraling far beyond where it should.
As far as pep talks went, the one currently happening inside my head was fucking pathetic.
Get it together.
She’s here to clean your room, not save you. Not ruin your life.
I still didn’t know why I’d asked for this.
Out of all the things I could have demanded in exchange for helping her with Franco’s absurd assignment—I’d asked her to clean.
Not kiss me.
Not touch me.
Not even spend time with me intentionally.
No.
I’d somehow landed on domestic fucking chores.
Pathetic.
But there she was.
In my space.
Wearing my clothes.
Filling the silence that had lived there for years.
And gods help me, I already didn’t want her to leave.
The next day was worse.
Much worse.
Because now I knew what it felt like when she wasn’t there.
Amrin had hung my shirt carefully on the hook beside the door before leaving, telling me to “air it out before you throw it back into the abyss you call a hamper.”
I hadn’t moved it.
Wouldn’t move it.
The faint scent of her still clung to the fabric—something soft and warm beneath the rain and detergent—and every time I looked at it, my chest tightened painfully.
Pathetic, Sten.
