Page 40 of Holiday Interference
I don’t look back.
If I do, I’ll walk right back over to him and climb him like a tree.
And that’s a mistake I’m not ready to stop wanting.
I keep walking.
But I swear I can still feel his breath against my mouth. His hands ghosting my hips. His voice, low and rough, caught somewhere under my skin.
I step into the bathroom, closing the door behind me before looking at my reflection in the mirror.
I know exactly what I should feel right now.
Guilt. Regret. Self-control.
But that’s not what I see in the mirror, nor is that how I feel.
Instead, of all those things, I feel him everywhere.
And God help me, I don’t want it to fade.
When I finally make my way back into the living room, credits roll on another show. The light from the TV flickers across the room, casting shadows I don’t trust, and the air feels thicker now. “I think I’m gonna turn in.”
He doesn’t move or appear to acknowledge me at first. Then he nods once. Slow. “Yeah. I’ll crash on the couch again.”
His voice is low, almost careful. Like we’re both pretending something didn’t happen in the kitchen.
But it did.
And my body hasn’t stopped humming since.
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the hem of the hoodie—his hoodie—I’m wearing. “You don’t have to.”
That gets his attention. His eyes cut to mine, sharp and unreadable.
“You sure?”
I nod, even though the yes barely makes it past my lips. “It’s not like last night wasn’t fine.”
Fine.
As if sharing a bed with him wasn’t the most nerve-sparking, skin-prickling experience I’ve had in years.
As if I didn’t lie awake half the night, acutely aware of his every breath just inches behind me.
He watches me like he’s trying to figure out what kind of game I’m playing.
But there is no game. I’m just tired. Tired of pretending this doesn’t feel like something. Tired of pretending I don’t want to know what would happen if I stopped pretending.
“You sure?” he asks again, voice rough.
I nod. “Same bed. Just sleep. No big deal.”
It’s a big deal.
I stand and start walking toward the bedroom, heart thudding with every step.
I don’t hear him get up, but I feel him behind me. The weight of his presence, the heat of his silence.
