The air changes.
Not sexual exactly.
Not only.
The house is too quiet. The bedroom is too close. The fake relationship sits between us like a match waiting for someone stupid enough to strike it.
I lean against the wall to give her space.
She notices.
Of course she does.
“You do that on purpose,” she says.
“What?”
“Step back.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “Trying not to spook you.”
“I’m not a horse.”
“You sure? You look ready to bolt.”
She laughs once, sharp and surprised. “That is unfortunately accurate.”
“Then I’ll keep stepping back.”
Her face softens in a way that does dangerous things to my stomach.
“I don’t want to be afraid of every man who moves near me,” she says.
“You ain’t obligated to fix that by tonight.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
At least she is honest.
I look toward the living room because eye contact is becoming a problem. “Boundaries.”
“Yes.”
“You tell me what works for the Fire Pit.”
She takes a breath. “Hand at my back is okay if you ask first.”
The image hits me fast. My hand low on her back. The heat of her through fabric. Her walking beside me, close enough for every bastard in town to know she is with me.
Fake.
Fake.
Fake.