“I remained technically upright.”
“You disappeared below the window.”
My face warms.
There are several possible responses.
Unfortunately, all of them involve admitting I was peeking at him.
“I was stretching.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Behind the curtain?”
“Yes.”
“At ten at night?”
“I take flexibility very seriously.”
For one tiny second, something shifts at the corner of his mouth.
I narrow my eyes.
“Did you almost smile?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“That was dangerously close.”
His gaze moves past my shoulder. His eyes stop. Silence stretches between us.
I turn my head slowly.
There it is. White lace draped over the lampshade like a deeply personal surrender flag.
I close my eyes.
“Please ignore that.”
When I look back, Zain’s mouth has tightened.
I point at him.
“You are doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying not to smile.”
“I’m not.”
“My lamp is wearing a bra, Zain. You are allowed to find this funny.”
