“I don’t have anything to add,” he says, still facing the dresser.
“That’s new for you.”
He exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to keep the peace.”
“Since when do you care about peace?”
His head turns slightly, just enough for me to catch the side of his face. “Since I realized arguing with you never leads anywhere useful.”
“That’s because you always think you’re right.”
“I usually am.”
The way he says it makes something in me twist. “You know, you could just admit this is weird,” I say. “Sharing a room, a bed—whatever this is. You could at least pretend it’s not normal.”
He turns fully this time, his expression unreadable. “What’s the point? Pretending doesn’t make it different.”
“It makes it easier.”
“For who?”
“For both of us,” I say, though it doesn’t sound convincing.
He studies me for a moment before speaking. “You keep waiting for me to do something wrong so you can justify being angry. You’re not angry about the bed. You’re angry about being here with me.”
“That’s not true.”
He raises a brow. “Isn’t it?”
The silence that follows feels too still. I break it first. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel.”
“I don’t have to,” he says. “You make it obvious.”
My jaw tightens. “You always have to win, don’t you?”
“This isn’t a fight,” he says. “It’s a room.”
“You make everything a power play.”
“And you make everything emotional.”
The words catch me off guard, not because they’re harsh but because they’re honest. For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us feels crowded, even with all the space in the room.
I turn toward the window because it’s the only direction left. “You don’t know me anymore.”
Behind me, he says quietly, “That’s the problem. I still do.”
I don’t answer. I stand there long enough to hear him set something else on the dresser before I force myself to turn back around.
His face gives nothing away, but his eyes do.
And that’s when I know this argument isn’t about the bed at all.
I grab my overnight bag and move toward the bathroom, needing space more than I need air. The click of the lock sounds too sharp, but I let it stay that way. For a moment, I just stare at the sink, trying to decide which version of myself to put back on before we have to face another crowd.
The mirror throws back a face that looks calmer than I feel. I dig out my makeup bag and touch powder to my cheeks, fix my lipstick, smooth my hair, and keep breathing until my pulse stops showing in my throat.
When I come out of the bathroom, the air in the room feels different. Rowan sits on the edge of the bed, head bent slightly as he rolls his sleeves higher. The movement is slow and practiced, the kind of ease that comes from knowing people are always watching.
