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She tilts her face up to the water. “Maybe I just like your water pressure.”
“Among other things.” I grab my body wash, working up a lather between my hands. “Turn around.”
She hesitates for a moment before obeying, and fuck if that doesn’t do things to me. Composure. I run my soapy hands down her back, feeling her muscles gradually relax under my touch.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she murmurs.
“Whatever you say.” She’s like a broken record.
No kissing. This doesn’t change anything. I hate you.Is that the denial stage?
After making sure we’re both cleaned up. I turn off the water and grab a fluffy towel. She’s still shivering, goosebumps prickling her skin.
“I can dry myself off,” she protests as I start rubbing the towel over her arms.
“Uh-huh.” I keep going, moving down to her legs. “Just like you could walk here from the club by yourself, right?”
She scowls at me. “I’m not a child.”
“Never said you were.” I stand, bringing the towel up to her hair. “But maybe I like taking care of you. Ever think of that?”
Her eyes widen, a flush creeping up her neck. “I don’t need?—”
“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need anyone.” I roll my eyes and snugly wrap the towel around her, tucking in the edges like a perfect burrito. “Heard that one before.” Add it to the list.
She huffs but doesn’t argue as I lead her back into the bedroom and grab a clean shirt from my dresser.
“Put that on.” I toss it to her and grab a pair of joggers for myself, putting them on.
The sheets are a mess, tangled and damp from our earlier activities.
“I’m gonna clean up,” I say.
“I can help.”
“Nope.” I point to the door. “Kitchen. Now.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue some more, but I raise my eyebrows.
“Fine.” She clutches the shirt to her chest and heads for the door.
When did she start listening to me?
I strip the bed quickly, balling up the sheets and tossing them in the hamper before grabbing fresh sheets from the closet and trying not to think about how domestic this all feels. Naomi in my shirt, in my kitchen. Me changing the sheets like we’re some old married couple.
It’s… nice. Weird, but nice.
I give my head a little shake, finishing up with the bed. I’m not going to overthink this. Naomi’s here, and that’s all that matters.
When I walk into the kitchen, she’s perched on my counter, legs dangling. My shirt barely covers her thighs, and her hair’s still dripping onto her shoulders. She’s scrolling through her phone, looking… comfortable? In my kitchen? Wearing my shirt?
Where do I subscribe?
“You hungry?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “Not really.”
I open the fridge. Let’s see… eggs, milk, some questionable leftovers. “Pancakes?”