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Ty’s eyes flick to the kitchen, where Hudson disappeared, where there are more cabinets being opened and closed. Firmly. Still bordering on slamming. Still rubbing the wrong way against my nerves, making me jumpy and nervous. When they come back to mine there’s worry edging into the brown depths, but he just reaches into his pocket then passes me a card that looks identical to the one he gave Dylan. “If you need anything else, feel free to call the office. Chuck and I are never far.”

I nod, murmur another “thanks,” and then I’m watching them slip out the front door, pausing to arm the alarm as promised. The lock whirs closed as Ty pushes a button on the keypad on the other side of the door.

Then I’m watching them walk away, disappear out of sight, and…

Silence falls.

But Hudson doesn’t come back out into the entryway.

Exhaling softly, I wrap my fingers around the handle of my suitcase, decide to give him space, and make my way slowly upstairs.

I’m not one hundred percent in fighting shape quite yet—cardio is the devil—so my pulse is speeding by the time I make it up the stairs and carry my stuff down the hall and into the guest bedroom. Despite the newfound intimacy Hudson and I have had over the last week, I still have my stuff in the same room I’ve been occupying since I first began staying at Hudson’s.

I don’t know why it matters to me—to keep that distance—since we’ve been sleeping together in Hudson’s bed every night since that first time together, since we spend pretty much every minute of our waking hours practically glued together.

It just…feels like too big of a step to keep anything in his room.

Too new. Too presumptuous. Too much too soon.

So, I’ve been coming back here to get dressed.

And it’s where I unpack my suitcase, carefully organizing my clothes into the dresser drawers, but when I go to tuck the box of my dad’s belongings carefully into the closet, I sense movement behind me.

Hudson is standing in the open doorway, eyes on my—now empty—suitcase.

They flick over to me as I set the box on the shelf and stand up.

“What the hell is this?” he mutters.

My eyebrows drag together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he snaps, moving toward me, “what are you doing putting your shit in the guest bedroom?”

I blink.

Then again.

“This is my room,” I begin.

“Is it?” he growls.

“I—”

“Because it sure as shit hasn’t been since the moment you climbed on top of me, princess.”

More blinking.

“I was trying not to overstep.”

“I’ve been inside you. I’ve kissed every inch of you.” He’s close now, near enough for me to see the flash of anger in his eyes. “I think we’re well beyond overstepping, don’t you?”

“I—” But I can’t bring myself to agree with that, can’t think too closely about that, or else I’ll panic. Getting in this deep after Dylan? Insanity. And yet…it’s Hudson, so I’m not exactly fighting the pull.

All of that is a whirlwind.

One I can’t allow to take over.

So, I change the subject.