Page 35 of Oliver
My hands stilled on a pillow. A second too long. A fraction too obvious.
"It is normal," I lied smoothly, adjusting one of the pillows with unnecessary focus. "Pillow barriers are a time-honored tradition in platonic bed-sharing situations."
Zahra let out a huff of laughter, but she still wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze flicked to the pillows again, lingering.
“Maybe…” she started, her eyes flicking around the room, slightly desperate. After a few seconds, she let out a resigned sigh.
“This is a solid plan,” I said again.
“Mmm,” Zahra hummed, eyeing the tower with thinning enthusiasm.
"It’s like we’re at a middle school sleepover."
Zahra laughed, a soft, unguarded sound that hit too deep, too familiar, like an echo from a life I’d buried. The tension broke for a moment, her smile a fleeting reprieve, but it only sharpened my awareness of her scent, her presence. I turned away.
"Have you actually ever been to a sleepover?" Zahra asked, engineering another pillow into the wall.
"I'll have you know I attended exactly one sleepover. Xander Peterson's eleventh birthday party." I straightened her addition, not meeting her eyes. "I spent most of it explaining why his space-themed bedsheets were astronomically inaccurate."
Her laughter deepened, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that had always made my stomach flip. "Of course you did."
I cleared my throat, climbing off the bed to examine our handiwork.
“This should hold up for the night.”
Zahra nodded, then reached out, adjusting a pillow by half an inch, like that would make a difference.
Then another.
She stared at it, her hands hovering over the structure, like she was waiting for it to collapse under the weight of reality.
It didn’t. Not yet.
“It’s perfect,” she said finally, but her fingers lingered on the top pillow, pressing down lightly, like she was testing its integrity. Like she didn’t believe in it anymore. “I have a couple of loose ends to tie before the mixer tomorrow. You wanna head to the shower first?”
“Sure.” I grabbed some spare clothes and walked into the luxurious bathroom that was bigger than my whole damn apartment.
It was a shrine of romantic excess. Marble countertops, a rainfall shower with multiple jets, and the centerpiece—a jacuzzi tub built for two. Champagne holders. Dimmer switches. Everydetail perfectly calibrated for a honeymoon, for soft touches, for slow, indulgent nights.
My fingers curled into fists.
I stared at my reflection in the oversized mirror, noting the tension in my jaw, the slight tightness around my eyes.
This wasn't part of the plan. None of it was.
The kiss at the airport, the honeymoon suite, the way Zahra's laugh still affected me after all these years.
These variables were unpredictable and uncontrollable.
Unacceptable.
I turned the shower to its coldest setting, methodically arranging my toiletries on the counter.
Structure. Order. Control.
These were the principles that had gotten me through the last decade. I wasn't about to abandon them now, not when I was so close to my goal. Not even for the woman just beyond that door, whose mere presence threatened to unravel years of careful compartmentalization.
By the time I’d walked out to the room, my defenses were reinstated and fortified. My priorities were reestablished, and I knew what I had to do.
