He's quiet long enough that I glance over. He's standing at the sink with the water off, looking at the dish in his hands like he's forgotten what to do with it.
"I noticed," he says.
The kitchen gets smaller. I put the last plate away and leave without looking at him again.
Bedtime takes the shape it always takes. Chesca's sound machine is humming ocean waves, the same recording she's fallen asleep to since she was four. Comforter is pulled up to her chin, my lips pressed to her hair, ten seconds in the doorway because ten seconds is all I allow myself before it becomes lurking rather than saying goodnight.
I pull her door almost-closed. Check the hallway night light. On and low, the warm one she prefers.
Cole is against the wall opposite Chesca's door.
"You could at least pretend you weren't standing guard," I say. Barely a whisper. Conscious of the child sleeping six feet away.
He knew I was here, heard me coming, probably counted my footsteps. He always knows.
"And you?" He keeps his voice low. "How many times do you check on her before you actually go to bed?"
I could lie. "Six."
"Then don't lecture me about overprotective."
The laugh slips out before I can catch it. Soft, tired, real. I press it down but it's too late. He heard it.
When was the last time someone made me laugh about the anxiety instead of dismissing it? When was the last time someone understood that checking six times isn't crazy, it's just what you do when you've learned the hard way that safety is a lie you tell yourself?
The hallway is dark with recessed lighting turned low the way I keep it after nine. He's in a black t-shirt, leaning against the wall like he belongs here.
I'm in sleep shorts and a tank top, the thin cotton kind I wear to bed because no one sees me after Chesca falls asleep.Bare legs, bare arms, nothing between my skin and the air except fabric that suddenly feels inadequate. I became aware of both facts about two seconds ago, and I hate that I'm aware of them now.
His gaze drops. Just for a beat, down and back up, and he catches himself, brings his eyes to my face. Holds them there like it costs him something.
Heat floods my cheeks. Lower.
No. Absolutely not.
"Goodnight, Cole." I say it too fast and turn before he can answer, before my body can betray me further, and walk to my room and close the door.
I lean against it, breathing harder than I should be.
Eight years. Eight years of nothing, of numbness, of convincing myself that part of me died with the marriage, that Adrian took my ability to want along with everything else. And now my skin is burning because Cole Tanaka looked at me for half a second too long.
Get it together, Angelina. He's protection detail. He's your past. He's a man who watched you through cameras for seven years without saying a word.
None of that stops the heat.
I shower too hot for too long. Stand under the water for twelve minutes trying to rinse off the residue of the day, the stairwell, the jacket, the baking soda, his eyes dropping in the hallway just now.
The water goes lukewarm. I still feel all of it on my skin.
His hand holding mine. I didn't flinch.
The realization won't leave me alone. I didn't flinch. Five days ago, I would have. Five days ago, unexpected touch from any man made my whole body go rigid with memories I've spent years trying to bury.
It doesn't mean anything. I was distracted by the alarm, the evacuation—
Liar.
I turn off the water and stand there dripping, staring at the tile wall.