Page 145 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Do not say good morning.”

“It is afternoon,” he replies.

“Do not say good afternoon either.”

“I was going to ask whether you wanted coffee.”

“Oh.” I exhale the single syllable, and he stills. “Yes, please.”

He tilts the kettle and pours me a cup, which I cradle between my palms, enjoying the warmth.

A bit later, I settle in the library’s hush, the scent of old paper and oak pressing in. Camille bends over a desk nearby, lost in scribbled notes. When hunger drifts in, we move to the kitchen and share sandwiches without my having to command him.

After lunch, we return to the library.

I glance down to find my feet tucked beneath Camille’s thigh on the velvet sofa. I don’t remember slipping them there. The silence between us feels less fraught than before—not safe exactly, just possible.

For almost an hour, I manage not to think of Henri, or Alberte, or Nadia, or the catastrophic emotional mistake I might be making by still wanting the man beside me. But the thought returns, relentless as the tide. He leans forward to turn a page, his palm resting on the cushion near my ankle. Not touching—yet so achingly close. A week ago, he’d have wrapped his hand around my calf without hesitation. Now every inch of space demands permission. I wanted that boundary. I still do. I’m just not sure if I want it forever.

“Camille,” I murmur. His head snaps up. “Come upstairs.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Do not ruin this.”

He holds back a chuckle. “Alright, I’m coming.”

He closes his book and stands. I rise, too, and we climb the stairs to his bedroom. This time he trails me by a single step instead of three.

I resist tying him with the belt draped over his chair, and climb onto the bed to speak my desires out loud.

When he asks to touch me, I say yes. His palms settle on my hips, firm and warm. That contact sends a curious heat through my chest that has nothing to do with desire. I ignore it until I can’t.

Afterward, I roll onto my side, facing the window. Twilight softens the room to a smoky haze. My muscles feel loose, my skin gently simmering.

Behind me, Camille stays still, every nerve trained on the question of touching. The knowledge that he’s thinking of me is strangely comforting.

“You can stay,” I say quietly.

He huffs. “I’m in my bedroom.”

I close my eyes. “You know what I mean. Now hold me.”

The mattress shifts. His arm slides around my waist, and I tense, then relax at his pause.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper.

His arm tightens. “Okay.”

* * *

I wake hours later to his deep breathing against my shoulder. His arm is still curled around me. I should slip free, but I stay, tracing his fingers as they rest over my stomach. That hand has opened doors for me, cooked for me, held me—let me bind it because I needed proof I could. People shouldn’t be this complicated.

“Camille,” I say. No answer. I nudge him.

He startles awake. “What? What’s wrong?”

I stifle a laugh. “Nothing. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to ask if there are any pastries left downstairs.”