“Story of my life.”
His head tilts. Maybe he heard more in that sentence than I meant to give.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. I’ll get out of your hair. Or... shirtless torso. Whatever’s applicable.”
“Good,” he mutters.
But he doesn’t sound like he means it.
I grab my bag, toss the wet hoodie into it, and pause at the door. The apartment smells like sandalwood and detergent and a teensy bit like wet dog.
“See you later?” I ask lightly.
His gaze flicks to mine.
“I’ll be here.”
I open the door and step into the hallway.
Then, like a coward, I glance back.
He’s still watching me.
Still unreadable.
But this time... I think maybe he’s a little confused, too.
Not about me.
About himself.
About why, exactly, he let this whole mess happen.
Why he didn’t throw me out.
Why he hasn’t stopped me since.
The door closes softly behind me.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I don’t feel like I’m running away.
I feel like I’m being watched.
And not in the bad way.
In the terrifying way.
Chapter Eleven
Rowan
The dog launches off my bed, not just hopping down but leaping, toenails skittering across the hardwood as he careens toward the sound of the front door opening, and half a second later, Tessa’s voice filters through the apartment.
“Waffles, no—hi! Yes, hi. I missed you, too. Oh my gosh, are you in his bed? I told you to wait! You’re going to get me murdered in my sleep!”
Too late.
I stare at the indentation left beside me, the pillow carrying that familiar mix of peanut butter and oatmeal shampoo—and her. I sit up slowly, taking in the wrinkled sheets, the faint wet spots, the single paw print pressed into the throw blanket, and the wiry hair lodged deep enough that extraction feels futile. I try to convince myself I’m not irritated, but I fail, because irritation is inevitable when it comes to Tessa Whitmore.
