Page 60 of Between Love and War
She grins. “Exactly.”
There’s a brief beat, and I glance back at the water bottle on her table. “Do you need more water? Energy drink? Electrolytes? I have tons.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.” She chuckles. “But no, I’m fine.”
“Do you need…” I hesitate. “Company?”
Her eyes flicker up, surprised. For a moment, she doesn’t answer. Then she adjusts her blanket and leans back against the pillows like she’s too tired to think too hard about it.
Siopao hops up to the desk, and I start scratching his head. We’re friends now.
“I won’t be very entertaining,” she says.
“But I will,” I say with a smile.
She smiles faintly, then scoots to the other side of the bed, and pats the space beside her.
And I sit. Not too close that our shoulders are brushing, but close enough that I can feel her looking at me.
The room is quiet. The fan hums in the corner. Somewhere outside, someone in the street is shouting the usual morning snacks. Siopao purrs, but then decides to sit near the window and take a nap.
Kate exhales slowly. “This is weird.”
I look at her. “Good weird?”
She closes her eyes. “Undecided.”
Fair enough. But she’s not asking me to leave. And I don’t want to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kate
There’s a man in my bed!
I repeat. There is a man. In. My. Bed.
Okay, maybe notinit. Not under the covers. But still—technically, logistically, alarmingly—inmy bed.
There has never been a man in my bed. I have never been in a man’s bed. But over the course of 48 hours, I fell asleep on Michael Lee’s floor mattress and now he’s sitting on my bed! Beside me!
He’s perched on the side like a gentle giant, balancing on the edge of the mattress like it might explode if he shifts his weight.
Meanwhile, I am unshowered, sporting cupcake pajamas and a hairstyle that could only be described as ‘post-apocalyptic birds’ nest.’
Why is he even here? And why did I agree? He could have checked on me, dropped off some electrolytes, and gone on his merry way. But no. He sat down. With his stupid face and hisstupid kindness and his deeply concerning ability to open sports drink bottles with one hand. How is that even operationally possible?
I sneak a glance. He’s scrolling on his phone, probably checking game stats or something. But his body is angled slightly toward me. Why does that make my stomach do that fluttery thing? Is that an emotion? Or is it still the tofu?
He clears his throat. “You okay?”
I blink at the ceiling like it holds the answers. “Define ‘okay.’ Like… physically?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Oh. Then no. I feel like a microwaved chicken. Sweaty on the outside, cold in the middle.”
He laughs softly. “Well, at least your color’s improving.”
