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Sighing, I place my knife-shaped bookmark into the spine of my book.

Serial killers and secret society stories will have to wait until bedtime.

Sliding off the bed, I reach my arms up over my head. I can feel every joint creak in protest of being prone in one position. A telltale sign I was laying down for far too long and need to move my body. And fucking hell, does it make me feel old.

I’m almost thirty. I can’t keep abusing my body like I was ten years ago. Plus, I’ve noticed recently, on the nights where I really knock out, I’m groggier and sore the next morning. Which is so odd. I would think a harder sleep would equate feeling better, not worse. When I’ve brought up the concern to Miles, he shrugsit off. “I don’t know. Maybe you need to take better care of yourself as you get older.”

I make a mental note to find a Pilates studio to try out later this week. Something to get myself active again.

Nuzzling Princess’ fuzzy head, I head towards the kitchen.

“Come on, girl. You want some dinner?”

Princess’ head pops up from the bed, her upper lip trapped between her jaw, tongue slightly out. I tap my knees and she comes bounding off the bed in my direction.

Princess dances around my feet as I fill her bowl. Her nightly ritual for dinner consists of tippy-tappy happy feet, followed by low rumbles of appreciation while vacuuming down her food in one go. For a dog who barely weighs thirty pounds and has the word “miniature” in her breed, she’s filled with crazy energy.

Busying myself with serving up dinner, I mentally prepare myself for the conversation I need to have with Miles.

The lingering touch of the man who invaded my space last night still sits at the recesses of my mind. A nagging ache reminding me that type of interaction is far from normal. Even after taking an hour-long shower when I returned home, scrubbing my body head to toe, I can still feel his unwanted touch on me.

There’s two ways this conversation could play out.

One, Miles has no idea who the man is and is more concerned about my safety than the unwanted advances of a stranger.

Two, Miles absolutely knows who that man is and that opens up another bundle of questions I’m not sure I’m ready to ask yet.

There’s also the issue explaining how I came across this guy. It’s not like I can be honest about my whereabouts, as horrible as that sounds.

Stirring the pot of bubbling chicken and rice soup, I run through all the options to explain how I could have interacted with someone in that context yesterday.

After allowing the soup to simmer on low for twenty minutes, I decide the best course of action is choosing the most obvious option.

I ran into this person at the grocery store during my errands run today. Safe, yet believable. Nothing out of the ordinary on my end except the encounter. There’s no reason for Miles to become irate at that fact or cause any unwanted arguments.

The front door clicks open as I’m reaching for two bowls in the upper cabinet. A chilled breeze sweeps through the space as Miles enters, his jacket slightly damp and his hair soaked.

“Welcome home,” I sing over my shoulder, not taking my eyes off the soup or it’ll surely burn with my luck.

Miles grunts in response. The only other sound from him is the rustle of his jacket and shoes being removed.

I keep my attention on the stove top, careful to not burn dinner in its last minutes of cooking.

Miles joins me in the kitchen to grab a short glass and places a swift peck on my cheek. He stops by the wet bar to pour some whiskey, then heads towards the bathroom. No doubt, ready for a shower after a long day at work.

Taking a large spoonful of soup, I taste my creation. A hum rumbles through me, echoing the deliciousness. Miles is going to love this new recipe. I pull the pot aside to allow it to cool and walk towards the bathroom.

Rapping my fingers against the door, I wait for Miles to answer me. When he doesn’t, I crack the door slightly. “You okay, babe?”

The shower curtain is closed with steam forming on the window across from me. The small space smells of bergamot and leather. I can make out Miles’ silhouette against the shower curtain, his large frame taking up most of the shower area.

I slink into the bathroom, closing the door behind me to keep the steam from escaping. Putting down the toilet lid, I takea seat, crossing my legs like I always do when we have these bathroom talks. This is the perfect time to ask about the creep at the club last night. Of course, I’m not going to say that verbatim, but it’s an easy white lie.

“I met someone interesting at the store today,” I begin.

“Oh?” Miles asks.

I pick at my fingernails, pieces of food stuck underneath. I’ll need to scrub my hands before bed tonight.