Page 36 of My End

My phone sat on the nightstand, silent. No texts. No calls. That was a good thing.

And then, a knock.

Sharp. Three taps.

I spun, confused. Jim had told me I was done for the night. I hadn’t expected to see anyone until breakfast.

Cautious, I crossed the room and pulled the door open just enough to peek out.

Tilly.

Her hair was piled high on her head in a messy twist that looked like she’d forgotten about it halfway through styling. She wore a white T-shirt, soft and oversized, with sleeves cuffed up, and black shorts dotted with specks of dried paint in every color imaginable. Her feet were bare on the cool tile, and her eyes were wide.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I rasped.

Her head tilted. “I wanted to talk to you.”

If anyone saw her here, if anyone even whispered that Tilly had been at my door, I was fucked six ways from Sunday.

I grabbed her wrist and yanked her inside as I closed the door behind her with a quiet click.

“There are cameras in the hallway,” I said in a low voice. “If anyone rewinds that tape…”

“They won’t,” she said simply. “Not unless someone gives them a reason.”

She was calm. Completely unbothered.

I wasn’t.

She stood in the middle of my room like she belonged there. Like this wasn’t the single worst idea I’d had in the last five years.

I looked her up and down. Paint-speckled legs, bare feet, her eyes trailing around the room taking it all in.

“Why are you so upset I’m here?” she asked, finally looking at me.

I swallowed. Hard. “Because you shouldn’t be coming to my room in the middle of the night wearing that.”

She looked down at her clothes, then back at me with a smirk. “They’re just my painting clothes.”

“Right,” I said tightly. “That’s the problem.”

She walked slowly around the room and let her fingers trail across the top of the dresser. She wasn’t snooping, just… observing.

“Though honestly,” she continued, “most of my clothes are painting clothes.”

I stood still. Watching. Waiting. Wishing like hell she would turn and walk right back out that door before I ruined everything.

Instead, she turned to me. Her eyes dropped to my chest. I followed her gaze.

Jeans. Button undone. A thin white undershirt, damp around the collar, the fabric clinging to the ink across my ribs. The hem of the shirt was half-tucked, just enough to give her a peek of that open waistband.

Her gaze flicked up to meet mine.

Shit.

I should’ve stepped back.

I didn’t.