Page 79 of In Somnis

The hoodie hangs almost to my knees, but still, I’m so not going to flash my cellulite at the guy. I pick up my stockings, which should dry quickly, but then I notice they’re torn. The fall onto the pavement left a large run in them, which makes me curious to inspect the damage left on my body.

Tugging the hoodie’s hem up, I catch sight of the bruise on the outside of my thigh, still throbbing with my heartbeat. It’s scraped, raw, and angry red, and it has me sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth.

Ouch.

Again, I feel like crying, but this time I don’t know if it’s from hurting or from the knowledge that he’s going to see me like this.

After folding my wet bra into my skirt and sweater, I finally look at myself in the mirror for the first time.

Jesus.

I look wild.

My lemon clip is barely hanging on, my damp hair is frizzed and sticking to my face, and my makeup is smudged. The scrape on my temple is red and ugly, standing out way too much against my pale skin.

Taking a deep breath, I clean off the mascara and smooth my hair with my fingers, wishing desperately for the lipstick in my purse—which is, of course, in the laundry room. After using the toilet and washing my hands the best I can with the wound, I gather my wet clothes and stare at the white door before I finally gather the courage to step back out.

The owner of said door is leaning against the wall across the hall, ankles crossed, eyes down on his phone. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and for a second, I stand there in the doorway, clutching my wet clothes, taking the opportunity to take a deep breath.

His gaze lifts at the sound, and whatever he was about to say dies when his eyes drop to my bare legs. They stay there for exactly one beat too long before he catches himself, jaw tightening slightly as he straightens off the wall and steps up to me.

Heat floods my face. “I’m sorry if this looks indecent. I don’t fit into your sweatpants, and my stockings are trash.”

His gaze flicks back to mine as if he’s realized he’s been caught staring. Then he exhales a quiet laugh, a little off guard. “I’m not complaining.”

My pulse stutters.

That almost sounded flirty.

He reaches for the clothes in my arms, and I instinctively pull them back. “What are you doing?”

“Washing those.”

“No, thank you.”

“Stubborn?”

“A little.”

“Good…” He pauses, then adds, “I’ll have them washed and dry before you leave. Please?”

This can’t get any worse, can it?

I hand them over, and he thanks me before returning to the laundry room.

The white carpet beneath my bare feet feels expensive, and I’m hyperaware of each step I take, not wanting to dirty anything. I stay in the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest as I wait for him, but when I hear a choked sound coming from inside, I rush over, already opening my mouth. “You don’t have to do this. I can change back into my clothes. It’s⁠—”

I stop short when I find him standing over the second washing machine, holding my bra, staring at it.

Of course.

Just… of course.

It’s big. I have big boobs. Gravity has opinions about the strain I put on it. That’s exactly why I buy proper lingerie from shops where they actually measure you, so nothing digs or slips. And yeah, I like lace and straps that make me feel feminine and put together, even if the rest of me lives in cute sweaters and skirts.

Breathe, Lenny. At least it’s not your granny panties.

His thumb slides over a lacy flower detail, and I lunge forward, snatching it out of his hand.