I let myself stand under the warm water for a stupid amount of time, hoping like crazy that he’s dressed and in his living room, ready to say goodbye and end the night here by the time I get out. As much as round two sounds like fun, that time really took it out of me—not even just physically; I feel too raw and I’m far too exhausted to begin analyzing what the hell happened for a bit there.
After what I think is an acceptable amount of time for Caleb to get dressed—even rehydrate in the kitchen and make himself busy—I turn off the shower, drying myself. I look in the mirror at my curls, cursing myself. I really need to do my routine when I get home, but I just don’t have the energy for it. I throw in a few haphazard braids and make a mental note to tie in my bandanna before I pass out.
I lazily pull on his Beyoncé shirt and boxers again, mindlessly moving around the bathroom, emptying the bath, ensuring no bubble residue remains, blowing out the candles, and securing their lids. Feeling my brain tick over the night’s events like a Rolodex, each card file a different moment, and each one featuring Caleb and his eyes. Caleb and his smile. Caleb and his lips, his caressing touches, his arms holding me.
Shove it down. Shove, shove…shoveeeee.
I straighten out the towels, mop up the splashed water, and I continue tidying the room as I ignore the ache in my chest, between my legs, behind my eyes.
Happy with the state of the room and that my ability to bury my thoughts is still as strong as ever, I head for the door, only stopping abruptly when I see Caleb.
Still in his room.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, a forlorn expression across his face as he leans back on his hands, staring at the ceiling.
“Ahh…” I’m speechless and stuck in place.
“You shower for ages.” He looks up at me, and something that is almost a smile crosses his face. “You look beautiful like this, though.”
“Like what?” My hands land on my hips and I try to show just how frustrated I am to find that he is in here, calling me beautiful while only wearing his towel, and not downstairs, bidding me adieu while he kicks me to the curb. I also hate that I’m not in my own room where I can crawl into a ball and pass out.
“Sleepy, dressed down.” He tilts his head to the side, his soft smile growing. “Comfortable.”
Okaythen. I feel my lips purse, not really sure how to take any of that, and comb through my list of excuses that I usually give guys that have them running for the hills so I don’t have to be the one to kick myself out. Make it their decision.
“Want me to sleep over and get breakfast tomorrow?” I bat my eyelashes at him and his head perks up. I begin the countdown.
Here it comes, the male ego shutting down the possibility of attachment, although…is he smiling? No, he’s about to start the usual freak-out and yeet me from his apartment.
Three—
Two—
“Well duh.” He chuckles, turning to untuck the sheet and climbing into the bed.
Huh?
“Wait…what?”
“I usually sleep naked, just so you know.” He’s downright jovial as he tosses his towel. “And I’m a natural cuddle sleeper. One time, I woke up wrapped around Noah when we stayed ina hotel, there was a mix-up with the rooms…it’s a long story. When you have me poking around your back, you can just push me off?—”
“Shut up. Hang on, what are you talking about?” I think my brain is short-circuiting; he’s fluffing the fucking pillow before he lies down, looking at me.
“Noah and I, we had to stay in LA for a conference and we asked for two beds and we got stuck with one?—”
“No, you idiot, why are you not asking me to leave?”
“You just asked to stay over…I can make pancakes tomorrow.” He has that injured puppy look about him again and it only adds to my confusion.
My mouth opens and closes a few times, fighting between arguing my point and also asking how he knows how to make pancakes, and if he does them to-go because,fuck,I love me some breakfast. Completely at a loss, I take a few steps toward him and fling the sheet off him.
“Hey—”
“You have to kick me out! I don’t do sleepovers.Wedon’t do sleepovers.”
“Rosebud, wha?—”
“Stop calling me Rosebud!” I’m unraveling, but I don’t care. I’m losing control of this entire situation and I need to get out of this man’s space. This man, who throws everything off balance. “Stop getting comfortable. Why are you naked again?” I gesture wildly like I’m one of those ridiculous inflatable tube men. I don’t need any of this right now; tonight was enough confusion to last me a million years. I spin around the room, collecting my shoes and dress, my panties and my purse. I reach and unplug my phone before making a mad dash to his bedroom door. When it’s open, I turn to look at him, making sure he is laughing because he was just joking, andobviouslyhe was just about to ask me to leave. But instead, I find him looking at me completelybaffled, perhaps even a touch embarrassed, given his cheeks are slightly pink. I bend, picking up his boxers and throwing them at him. He makes quick work of stepping into them as I spin on a heel. I head into the living room and beeline for the front door.
