Page 37 of Oliver
"It feels smaller than I remember," she said, looking out at Norman. "Less...significant."
"The city or the memories?"
"Both, maybe." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I built it up so much in my head. Made it into this monumental place. But it's just...Norman."
"Places change," I said. "Or maybe it’s the people that change."
Her eyes found mine in the darkness. "You've changed."
It wasn't a question, but I felt compelled to answer anyway. "We both have."
"Have we, though?" There was something searching in her gaze. "Or are we just better at pretending?"
The question hit too close to home, threatening to unravel the careful distance I'd maintained. Because the truth was being near her still affected me the same way it had when we were teenagers. There was a cosmic connection I couldn't explain or resist.
"We should get some sleep," I said instead of answering. "Big day tomorrow."
She nodded, disappointment flashing briefly across her features before she turned back toward the bed. I remained at the window, needing a moment to compose myself.
When I finally returned to bed, the fortress we’d built—our last defense, our childish illusion of distance—was in ruins.
A few pillows had slid down, some scattered, some tangled in Zahra’s side of the blankets. The once-perfect boundary was now a mess of fabric and failed intentions.
I stared at it for a moment too long, fingers curling at my sides, tempted to just leave it.
But I didn’t.
I rebuilt it, methodically, piece by piece, avoiding the part of my brain that whispered it was pointless. Ignoring the way my fingers brushed against the blanket where her warmth lingered.
Tomorrow, I reminded myself. Tomorrow I would begin the real work, the reason I'd agreed to this charade in the first place.
Norman was where it had all begun.
And Norman is where I would end it.
Twelve
ZAHRA
Warmth.Steady, solid warmth.
A slow heartbeat under my cheek, the scent of cedar and something distinctly Oliver threading through the air. The rise and fall of his chest matched my own breathing. A quiet, peaceful rhythm.
Safe. Secure.
Right.
My eyes fluttered closed again.
Then awareness crashed in.
My entire body went rigid, my eyes flew open, and I let out a silent curse.
The pillow wall hadone job,and it had failed spectacularly. Instead of being on my designated side of the bed, I was tucked against Oliver's chest, my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around me, his breath a soft rhythm against my hair. The pillows that had been so meticulously arranged the night before were scattered across the bed and floor, casualties of unconscious movement.
I knew I should move, disentangle myself from this compromising position, but I let myself linger, savor it for a moment longer. The subtle scent of his soap, clean and cedar-like, mingled with the plush hotel bedding, the rise and fall of his chest, and the quiet intimacy of it all felt unnervingly right.
Then he shifted in his sleep, drawing me closer. The blanket moved with him, my gaze slid downward automatically, and—oh.
