Page 84 of Lose You Twice

Got ya.

“It’s a king bed. We can both fit. Plus, it’s not like we haven’t shared a much smaller bed many times in the past.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s a lot that we used to do.”

I ignore his comment because I do not need my brain going there before we share a bed, completely platonically. “You stay on your side, I stay on mine, and tomorrow we never speak about this.”

He studies me through the darkness. “Are you sure?”

“No. But if you limp tomorrow, I’ll feel responsible.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“Welcome to my brain. It doesn’t care.” I might regret letting him into my space, but the responsible, kind, “always take care of others first” part of me won’t get the hint.

The humor fades from his expression.

I wish I could take the sentence back before he examines it too closely.

“Get in the bed, Kai,” I say, quieter.

Kai stands, trying and failing to hide the stiffness in his hip. He folds the floor blanket before sitting on the far side of the mattress.

The bed dips beneath his weight.

Every nerve in my body notices.

I turn toward the window. He settles onto his back, leaving enough room between us for another person.

That should help.

It doesn’t.

The dark turns him into heat and breath and the familiar outline of a body I used to know. I remember lying beside him when we were sixteen, too nervous to do anything but hold hands beneath a blanket while his thumb traced my wrist.

Nothing happened that night, but I thought about it for months.

Apparently, I’m still thinking about it.

“Wren,” he says.

I jump slightly. “Yeah?”

“I’m not going to touch you.”

An unexpected wave of disappointment crashes through me, but I huff a laugh to cover it. “I know.”

Silence stretches between us.

Then, because I’m incapable of leaving a fragile situation alone, I whisper, “That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

His breathing changes.

I close my eyes, regretting every choice that brought me here.

The mattress shifts. When I look again, Kai is lying on his side facing me, still keeping the distance between us.

“We should sleep,” he says.