Fresh clothes. Dry clothes. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt stretched across his shoulders.
I stare at him, heart still racing, shame still burning in my throat.
"I thought you left," I say quietly.
He looks at me, something soft in his expression.
"I wasn't sleeping in your bed in wet clothes," he says simply. "I just went to grab something dry from my place.”
Oh.
Oh.
The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost embarrassing. My throat is tight. My eyes are burning again but for a completely different reason.
"I—" I start, but I don't know how to finish.
“Come on,” he gestures towards my room. “Let’s get some sleep.”
We lie down on the bed, facing each other.
Not touching but close enough that his warmth radiates between us. The room is dark except for the faint light from the bathroom we left cracked open.
The outline of his face, the shape of him in the shadows.
My eyes are getting heavier by the second and I'm fighting to stay awake, fearing this moment will end and tomorrow things will go back to being tense and awkward between us.
"Nate?" My voice is small in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"I wish I could hate you."
The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and honest.
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Do you?"
"I've tried," I say, and my voice cracks slightly. "It would make everything so much easier."
"Would it?"
"Yes." I close my eyes against the burn of tears. "Because hatingyou would be simple. I could just... let you be the villain in my story and move on."
"But you can't."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway.
"No. I can't."
"Why not?" His voice is so gentle it almost breaks me.
I'm quiet for so long I think he might think I've fallen asleep. But then the words come, pulled from somewhere deep and honest.
"Because hating you hurts more than this."
"Than what?"
