Clothes cover the already limited floor space of my tiny studio. The desk is littered with papers and notecards. The kitchenette is no better.
Damn, it looks like a slob lives here. I've been lax about cleaning, about taking care of myself, about everything, really. Ever since Rosie… it's hard to do anything.
I never want anything.
Only I want Miles.
I want him in my bed.
Want us out of these stupid clothes.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off. Figures I want something bad for me. It's fitting, really. If I'm not careful, I'll fall down the same rabbit hole that destroyed her.
I kick a pair of underwear out of view and take a seat on the bed.
Miles is close.
There are only two feet between the bed and the wall. There's nowhere else for him to be. The reasonable explanation does nothing to calm my racing heart.
Miles scans the walls, taking in the movie posters breathing life into the otherwise drab room—the Star Wars original trilogy, Jurassic Park, The Matrix, Dark City, and The Terminator.
His lips curl into a smile. "I like your décor."
"I'm sure you've seen plenty of women's apartments with much better décor."
"I still like yours." He sits me on the bed. "First aid kit?"
I point him to the bathroom. He disappears for a moment and returns with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bag of cotton balls, and a wide bandage. I don't remember buying any of this. Must have been Rosie's.
I guess she doesn't need them anymore.
"You don't have any antibacterial cream?" he asks.
"Only have the kit."
"Get the cream for next time." He uncaps the rubbing alcohol, presses the cotton ball over it, and tilts the bottle. His eyes find mine. "This will sting."
Miles drops to his knees, kneeling in front of me like he's about to pull off my panties and plant his face between my thighs.
The beautiful mental image dies the moment he presses the cotton ball to my skin. Ow. Ow. Ow. It doesn't just sting. It burns like hell.
"Fuck," I mutter.
"Here." He presses his lips together and blows cool air over the wound.
It lessens the sting but it sets the rest of my body on fire. He pats my skin dry and applies a bandage. There. Fixed. We're done.
Only he's still here, still between my legs.
He looks up at me. His fingertips trail along the inside of my calf as he pulls his hands back to his sides. "Better?"
"I could have handled that." I press my knees together. I want him. I can't deal with that. I need to tell him to leave. "But yes. Thanks."
"My pleasure."
He's still here. I'm still on my bed. It would be easy to remind him of his offer.
Maybe I can be casual and aloof too. Maybe sex is the secret to not feeling like my heart weighs a thousand pounds.