“You should sleep,” he says.
I clear my throat. “Probably.”
“The bedroom is yours.”
My attention shifts toward the hallway.
“No.”
His expression hardens. “Kaia.”
“You are not giving me your bed.”
“Yes, I am. You spent tonight inside a burning house,” he says. “You’re taking the bed.”
“And you spent tonight inside the same burning house.”
“I chose to go in.”
The words stop me.
Something in my chest catches.
He seems to realize what he said at the same moment I do, because his expression closes.
I look down at the shirt hanging from my body.
“Thank you. For pulling me out and saving my life.”
His jaw tightens.
For a second, the room becomes so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Then he says, “Bedroom, Kaia.”
The roughness in his voice steals the rest of my argument.
I glance toward the hallway. “Fine.”
His shoulders loosen by a fraction.
“But only because I am too tired to continue explaining why you are wrong.”
“Of course.”
I point at him. “That sounded sarcastic.”
His expression does not change, which somehow makes it worse.
I make it halfway down the hallway before turning back.
He is still standing where I left him.
Watching me.
My pulse stumbles again.
“Good night, Zain.”
