I clutch the nightgown to my chest and wait for him to speak. When a few seconds pass and he doesn’t utter a word, I look at him over my shoulder.
His hair is all mussed up as though he ran his hands through it on the way up here. There aren’t lines bunching his forehead like I imagined. Instead, a softness tints his features that has me blowing out a thankful breath.
“That took about three seconds longer than I anticipated,” I say.
“What are you doing?” he asks, not humored by my observation.
“Getting my stuff together.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Um, actually, it is.”
We’re face to face, my sweatpants and sunshine from the open door the only things between us. My gaze drops to his right hand. My cheek tingles at the thought of him touching me. And when I look back up at him again, I know he knows what I was thinking.
He smiles carefully. “I told you to stay here.”
“It’s a bad idea, Mach.”
“Why?”
“Because of you. And me,” I add before he can object. “Look at us. One of us can’t even do something nice for the other without a fight.”
He considers this. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“I am? I mean, I am, but you agree with me?”
His gaze settles off into the distance. “Thank you for what you did with Spencer. I guess I should’ve led with that.”
“You think?”
“Oh, so you are blaming it on me?” He grins.
“I’m not blaming this,” I say, motioning between us, “on you. I’m just as much at fault.”
“This is your fault,” he says, motioning between us too.
“What? No. You touched me,” I say, tossing my sweatpants on my bag. “You broke the barrier.”
“And you came home, love.”
My knees go weak, and I grab the wall for support. I think it just slipped—him calling me love—but the glimmer in his eyes makes me consider otherwise.
I press my lips together, trying to get my head on straight. He shakes his head, a cheeky smile splitting his cheeks.
“Unless you want to be almost-kissed again, stop it,” he says.
I take a step back, but I can’t fight the smile on my face either. “I hate you.”
“Yeah. Sure looks like it.”
My phone rings from its spot on the table. It sounds louder than it’s ever sounded before and more urgent than it’s ever buzzed. Machlan side-eyes me as he leans forward and looks at the screen.
“Who’s Samuel?” he asks.
“A super nice guy who I’ve been dating.”
“You’re dating him?” He moves to pick up the phone.
“Don’t you dare.”
His hand stalls midair. “You’re dating him?” This time, there’s a gruff tone to his voice, a caution that pokes at my heart. He runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth as if going over a blueprint for war.
“No,” I admit. “I’m not currently dating him. We’re on a break.”
“Why?”
“Do you care?” I ask.
“Depends on the answer.”
He turns up the thermostat in my body with one pointed crook of his brow. I think I might melt to the floor as he leans against the wall and runs a hand up and down his bicep.
The colors of his tattoo draw me in, making it hard to look elsewhere. There are new designs etched in his skin, and I want to look closer. I want to drag my fingers down the designs and ask him why he chose each image.
“Hey,” he says.
When I skirt my gaze back to his, he nods, as if prodding me to answer his question.
Sucking in a deep lungful of air, I steady myself. “We’re on a break because I apparently have commitment issues.”
“Good.” He laughs. The jerk laughs.
“It’s not funny.” I head across the room again and find my flip-flops under the bed. When I stand again, he’s on the other side of the bed watching me with an amused smirk. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“He thinks you have commitment issues? Does he even know you?”
“He knows me well enough to know I’m unable to commit.”
“Since when?”
“He’s known me since—”
“Since when do you have commitment issues?” He gives me a disapproving look. “And on that note, what the fuck with you saying shit to Peck and Navie?”
“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
I toss my flip-flops on top of my bag. He moves behind me. I just carry on into the kitchen and grab my toothbrush and toothpaste off the sink.
“Are we telling everyone everything about us now?” he asks.
My head whips to the side, and my eyes find his. “No.”
He nods like he doesn’t care, but I see the relief on his face.
My shoulders sag. I go about putting my things on top of my bag. They form a pile, teetering back and forth, as I add a notebook to the mix.
“Had …”
“If this is about … that,” I say, my throat thick with emotion, “then don’t.”
His hand reaches for me and rests on my arm. I stop in my tracks and stare at the point where his skin touches mine. My chest refuses to allow enough air inside to keep me even-keeled. A flurry of memories, of hopes and dreams all gather in the corners of my eyes.