"You've got something... right here."
She lifted her hand before he could move. Touched the side of his neck, just under his jaw. Her fingers brushed something sticky.
Then she blinked.
Her eyes met his.
And something passed between them--something he didn't know how to explain and she didn't know how to name.
She dropped her hand.
"Never mind," she whispered. "It's gone."
And she walked out of the room.
----------------
She didn't come back after that.
He stayed where he was, coffee forgotten in his hand, staring at the door she'd just walked through.
Her touch still tingled on his skin.
That tiny patch of damp where her fingers had been--it burned like a brand.
And the way she'd looked at him.
Like she knew.
But then she'd said "never mind" and disappeared down the hall, leaving him standing there in the wreckage of a moment neither of them could name.
Did she know what she found on him?
He didn't see her again until long after midnight.
βΈ»
She didn't know what time it was.
The room was dark, the streetlight outside casting a pale grid of shadows across the wall. She'd kicked off the blankets sometime after midnight, too hot to sleep. Now she lay curled beneath the sheet, wide awake, watching her own breath rise and fall like she was trying to prove she was still here.
Her thoughts kept looping.
Not words--just flashes.
The way Matt had looked at her when he opened the front door. The smell of soap and cedar. The silence that didn't feel dangerous.
She retreated to the room down the hall. Again.
The door clicked shut behind her. She didn't lock it, but she didn't want to be seen either.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of stillness.
She lay on the bed, curled on her side, the smell of laundry soap rising from the pillow like it was trying to comfort her. She scrolled her phone without seeing anything. Let a podcast play without listening. Watched dust move in a shaft of sunlight across the floor and thought about nothing and everything all at once.
Matt didn't knock. Didn't call her for lunch. Didn't ask if she was okay.
And that made it easier, somehow.
She heard him moving through the house--washing dishes, hammering something out back. Once, his voice drifted down the hall, low and even, like he was on the phone. Like he was holding something in.
By late afternoon, the light began to shift. The house got quieter.
She stood once. Just for a moment.
Made it as far as the doorway.
The smell of something warm drifted in from the kitchen. Pasta, maybe. Or soup. She could hear him moving, slow and methodical. The clink of cutlery. The creak of the old drawer near the sink.
She thought about going out there.
Thought about sitting at the table. Saying thank you. Maybe even trying to explain.
But the words felt stuck behind her ribs.
And the thought of looking him in the eye--of wondering what he remembered, what he felt--was too much.
So she backed away again.
Closed the door.
Laid back down.
And stayed there until the light under his door went dark.
The quiet was different now. Heavier.
She thought it would help--being alone. Giving him space. Giving herself space.
But it didn't feel safe.
It felt hollow.
Like something was missing from the air.
Her thoughts kept looping.
Not words--just sensations.
The way his eyes flicked away like she'd done something wrong.
The shift in the air when she got too close.
The sticky warmth on her fingers.
She didn't know what it meant.
Only that it embarrassed her.
That she wished she hadn't touched him.
That maybe she was gross for noticing.
It felt like other moments she couldn't name.
Moments that blurred.
Moments she'd learned to walk away from without asking questions.
So she did what she always did.
She folded into herself.
Made herself small.
Tried to disappear behind a closed door.
But it wasn't working anymore.
The quiet scratched at her skin.
The dark pressed too close.
She didn't think. Didn't plan.
Just moved.
One step. Then another. Her hand barely made a sound on the hallway wall.
The light under his door was off.
She stood there for a second, fingers curled at her sides, heart pounding too loud in her ears.
Then she knocked. Soft. Once.
The door opened.
He didn't say anything. Just looked at her.
His eyes were sleepy, his hair a mess. He wore a T-shirt and old plaid pajama pants. His mouth opened like he might ask if she was okay--but he didn't.
She was grateful for that.
She didn't want to explain.
"Can I just..." she swallowed. "Be in here?"
He stepped aside.
She climbed into the bed without waiting for him to say yes.
The sheets were warm. The pillow smelled like him. Her back stayed turned.
She didn't want him to see her face.
Didn't want to know what it looked like when she let herself feel safe.
He lay down a minute later, careful not to shift the mattress too much.
They didn't speak.
But their breaths found the same rhythm.
βΈ»
He hadn't expected her to knock.
Hadn't expected to see her standing there in that oversized T-shirt, hair mussed from sleep, bare thighs pale in the low light of the hallway.
She looked small.
But not like a child.
Like something fragile trying to hold itself together.
He didn't ask what was wrong. He just moved aside.
She slipped past him, silent as breath, and climbed into his bed like she'd done it a hundred times before.
He watched her settle--back to him, knees tucked up, shoulder rising and falling with shallow breath.
The covers barely covered her legs. Her shirt rode up when she shifted. He could see the curve where her ass met her thigh.
And for one wild second, he wanted to touch her.
Just--pull the blanket up.
Just tuck her in.
Just feel her skin.
He lay down with a full foot of space between them.
But he could feel her heat.
The air between their bodies charged and close. The kind of closeness that made your lungs tighten. That made you forget how to breathe.
She moved in her sleep--just a little. Her heel brushed his calf.
He didn't flinch.
