Page 35 of Dirty Fighter

I nod.

We’re both thinking it: another night in the same bed.

Or maybe this new Rowan with her zero-bullshit tolerance is thinking, Another fucking night in the same fucking bed because this fucking douche locked me out of my room.

Whatever’s running through her mind, I can’t blame her for either it or this new layer of tension between us.

And it only intensifies as the night progresses.

That easy conversation we couldn’t stop slipping into is nowhere to be found. And the sparse and stunted interactions we do share revolve around things like which cabinet the pepper is in (the one to the left of the sink, top shelf), the weather (it’s really blowing out there), and who’s going to clean up (she washes, and I dry. And when our fingers touch mid plate handoff— awkward).

We retreat to our corners, her by the front window at the west wall, me on the loveseat on the south wall. Then her in the wingback on the north wall, and me in the kitchen.

We look at our phones, practically gasping with relief when that sketchy signal delivers a text drop. And when the signal won’t even give us that? Well, I’ve been doing a deep dive on my downloaded files and saved screenshots.

Then it’s finally late enough to justify going to bed.

We take turns in the bathroom. Rowan is first, and when she emerges, she’s draped in a T-shirt so long that only the barest hint of her sleep shorts is visible beneath. She looks all too much like the girl I used to find curled up on the couch with her books spread out around her when I got home from a late practice.

I’m careful not to touch her when we pass on my way in to brush my teeth and change. Not that it makes any of this less uncomfortable.

And when I’m finished, she’s already in bed, her hair spilled around her pillow, her eyes echoing what I’m feeling as I climb in beside her:

It was easier when we were fighting.

Jason

It’s been an hour or so since we went to bed, and the stormfront that was supposed to stay well south of us is howling through the trees and rattling the windows.

But that’s not what woke me.

I can sleep through most anything. Hell, the team jet had to make an emergency landing once because the weather and turbulence were so bad, and I had no idea until Rux, our captain, smacked me on the side of the head and told me to get my ass off the plane.

But one restless murmur from Rowan and I’m wide awake, blinking at the lightning splintering the night sky, my senses on high alert.

She’s fine.

It was one little noise.

I tell myself I don’t need to roll over and make sure she’s okay. First, because watching her sleep is the line I refuse to cross.

But second, because if she woke up to me staring at her in the dark, there would be no coming back from that kind of creepy.

I have my pride, damn it. Maybe.

Or do I?

Because her next mumble is layered with an undertone of distress that hijacks my resolve and has me propping myself up on one arm.

There’s enough light from the lightning to see her face and the troubled lines between her brows.

She doesn’t like storms.

I don’t want to wake her, but when she flinches in her sleep, it does something to my chest I didn’t think was possible.

“Shhh.” I lift my hand but stop short of touching her. “You’re okay.”

Except she isn’t. Her breath is coming faster as she shrinks into her pillow. And even through the relentless wind and rumbling thunder, I hear her whimper, “Help…”