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“You like having sex with me. You said that. You still want me. You said that too.”

“That doesn’t mean I only want your body.”

“No?”

There’s no anger in the question. I almost wish there were.

“I care about you, Kell.”

The words land badly, and I know why as soon as they’re out. I used them the other night when he asked whether I felt affection for him. They sounded inadequate then. They sound worse now.

“I do,” I continue. “More than I let myself admit.”

“But you don’t want a life with me.”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “I don’t think we’re right for each other that way.”

“And you think we should still have sex.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds terrible.”

“How should I say it?”

I don’t have an answer. He steps closer, leaving the duffel by the door, though not close enough to touch me. “If I say yes, what happens?”

I wasn’t expecting the question. “What do you mean?”

“I come here when you want sex. We have it. Then I go back to the studio?”

“It wouldn’t have to be that clinical.”

“You don’t want me living here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t want to build a life with me.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Kell gives a small nod. “So I come here for the part you want.”

Hearing him say it that way strips all my careful reasoning off the idea. I hadn’t let myself hear what I was actually offering him.

“That isn’t fair.”

“It’s what you’re asking.”

The words hurt because I can’t find a way to argue with them. I turn away and take a few steps into the living room before stopping.

“I’m trying to find a way not to lose everything.”

His answer takes a moment, and the fact that he isn’t angry somehow makes it hurt more. His voice goes quieter. “You already decided which parts of me you want to keep.”

I look back at him. He doesn’t sound cruel. He sounds tired.

“I don’t want pieces of you, Laura. And I don’t want you keeping only the pieces of me that fit.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“I’m sorry.”