Chapter Twenty-One
Erica
Here I am again, staring at myself in the mirror. I don’t look too different from earlier, eyes still puffy, even after the ice. Face still splotchy.
My hair is dry now and a little wild. I run my fingers through it quickly, and it only makes it worse. I consider putting some water into it to tame it, but then it’ll look like I tried.
But no matter because I look tired. I look wrung out. I look like I should be grateful I’m standing upright at all.
And I am.
But my brain has latched onto a different emergency now, because my brain is a traitor and it refuses to focus on what I order it to focus on.
Instead, it’s obsessing over the fact that I’m not in my sweatpants anymore.
I’m in what I actually sleep in. A thin tank top and shorts.
It’s what I’ve always worn to bed. I’ve never liked the feeling of loose clothing twisting around my legs at night or riding up my waist or bunching under my shoulder blade until I’m half-awake and pissed off.
I like minimal. I like nothing pulling or tangling.
It has never been a problem.
Tonight it is.
Because Nico is in my bedroom.
Staying the night.
The thought hits me like a jolt, the same way it did the first time. The same way it has every time since then.
What the hell is he wearing to bed?
The question is absurd and also not absurd at all.
Genuinely concerning.
It’s not like I can hand him a spare pair of sweatpants. It’s not like Dad has anything that would fit him. Nico isn’t just tall—he’s built. All shoulders and chest and long legs, dense muscle that makes even furniture look smaller around him.
There is nothing in this house that’s going to slide onto his body without ripping at the seams.
Is he just going to… sleep in his suit pants?
That sounds miserable.
I focus on that thought instead of the one that wants to keep creeping in. That maybe he’s not sleeping in his suit pants.
But then what about a shirt?
I can’t offer him one. Not Dad’s. Not mine. And even if I could, my shirt would sit on him like a crop top, and those abs would be out. That interesting V that sits on his hips and narrows, like a big arrow pointing to his big—
I huff out a breath.
Don’t go there.
So, he’ll be shirtless.
And I will be in a tank top that is practically a suggestion and shorts that might as well not exist. Even more so because I’m so wet, they might actually dissolve.
In the same bed.
My bed.
My big, ridiculous bed that I love more than I love most people.
Dad bought it for me the year I moved into that apartment with Maddy, just off campus. He surprised me with it, like it was a normal thing to do, spending that kind of money on a brand new mattress for his daughter. I cried when it showed up, and that made him happy.
It was stupidly huge in my bedroom in that apartment. And when I moved home, it came with me and swallowed three-quarters of my room.
I didn’t mind.
I still don’t.
I love it. I love stretching out in it. I love not feeling trapped. I love the space.
And now Nico Conti will be in it with me.
I keep looping.
Nico in my bed.
My tank top.
His bare chest.
My shorts.
His arms.
Possibly his legs.
The way his hand feels when he reaches for me—firm and sure, like my body is something he already knows how to handle.
Which he does. And so damn well.
Sitting next to him on the couch earlier was torture.
Actual torture.
His thigh brushing mine under the throw. The heat of him. The stupid little touches that weren’t touches—an elbow, a shoulder, the way our hands almost met when we reached for the same spoon.
But he didn’t touch me.
Not really.
Not the way my body kept begging for.
I didn’t know if I could do that all night. Lay next to him and not be touched by him. Feel him breathe beside me. Feel the mattress dip when he shifts. Smell his cologne and his soap and the faint trace of gelato and not lose my mind.
He wanted to stay with me until morning at least.
He said it like it was decided. Like it was a fact. Like he made the call, and I was to go along with it.
I did.
It felt weird to offer him Dad’s bed. Like that would be crossing a line.
And he wouldn’t fit on the couch. Not without waking up folded in half, all long legs and hard angles.
So the only choice left was my bed.
The loop spins again, and I stare at my reflection until I want to throw something at it.
I let out a frustrated sigh, sharp and annoyed, and it fogs the mirror for a second.
Enough.
If I keep standing here, I’m going to think myself into a panic or a bad decision, and I don’t have the energy for either.
I grab the floss off the counter.
It doesn’t hurt to be minty fresh.
For no particular reason at all.
The floss snaps between my fingers. I start working it between my teeth with a little more force than necessary, like I can scrape my brain clean along with my gums. Like I can scrape off the images I don’t want to be having right now.
Nico’s mouth.
Nico’s hands.
Nico’s voice when he’s being gentle.
Nico’s voice when he’s not.
Nico moving in and out of me. Rough, hard, fast. Then slow. Owning me completely while he whispers dirty words in my ears and makes me want things I didn’t even know were options.
I finish flossing and spit, then brush my teeth. I rinse. I swish mouthwash. The burn is sharp and clean and it gives me something physical to focus on besides the heat pooling low in my stomach.
I stare at the water flosser on the counter.
I consider it.
Then I dismiss it immediately.
Overkill.
I rinse my mouth one last time, pat my lips dry, and glance at myself again.
Still puffy.
Still tired.
Still… aware.
Still wet.
I reach back and grab the robe hanging on the back of the door.
No way am I walking into the bedroom in barely anything.
Not with him in there.
Not with my body already acting like it has a mind of its own.
I slip the robe on and tie it tight at the waist, then pause with my hands on the knot for a second like I’m bracing.
I listen.
The house is quiet. Not the awful, empty quiet from earlier. Not the silence that made me collapse.
Just… night.
Just the low hum of the fridge and the sound of someone moving. Nico, probably doing something practical, like checking the doors.
It occurs to me that his being here is probably a safety risk for him. I don’t know what his house is like, but I imagine he has security of some sort.
My house has a screen door that sticks and a front door with flimsy locks.
It makes me even more grateful that he’s here, though.
I take a breath.
Then another.
Then I turn off the bathroom light, open the door, and scurry back down the hall, wanting to get into bed before he comes up. I don’t want to disrobe in front of him.
Then I curse and run back to the bathroom and root around for a new toothbrush and set it on the counter.
This time, on the way back, I run into him on the landing. Almost literally. He reaches out to steady me.
His hand closes around my upper arm firmly, stopping me before I can faceplant into him, and I freeze.
“Jesus,” I breathe, because my heart is doing something stupid in my chest.
His hand is warm, and I’m still keyed up and stupid from the spiral in the mirror, and the robe suddenly feels like it’s made of tissue paper.
He doesn’t let go.
“You’re going to break your neck,” he says, voice low.
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically, because that’s what I do, apparently. I swallow and force myself to look up at him. The hallway is dim, blessedly so, and it makes the sharp lines of him softer. It also hides the heat in my face. Hopefully.
His eyes flick over me anyway. I can’t tell what he sees. With Nico, I never can.
“Where are you going so fast?” he asks.
My throat goes tight around a laugh that doesn’t make it out.
“Nowhere,” I say, too quickly. “I mean— bed. I was going to bed. Then I remembered you need—” I gesture vaguely behind me, toward the bathroom, because my brain is not cooperating. “The bathroom. If you want it.”
His eyes flick past my shoulder, then drop to the robe knotted tight at my waist. I feel it like a touch.
The hall is dim, thank God. The light from downstairs doesn’t reach this far, and whatever lamp is on in my room is muted behind my door.
Dim enough that he can’t see the heat crawling up my neck.
Dim enough that I can pretend I’m not blushing like a teenager.
“I set a toothbrush out,” I add, because I can’t stop myself from talking when I’m nervous. “I— I wasn’t sure if you’d want one, but… it’s on the counter.”
His mouth twitches like it might become a smile, but it doesn’t.
I tighten my grip on the banister because it gives my hands somewhere to exist that isn’t on him.
I force myself not to squirm. Not to lean into him. Not to do anything that would make him think I’m inviting something I can’t handle tonight.
I can handle plenty of things.
Or at least I think I can.
Tonight, I might be wrong about that.
His gaze holds mine for a second.
Then he finally lets go of my arm.
The absence of his hand makes my skin feel cold.
“I checked your doors,” he says, “Front and back. Windows too.”
Relief loosens in my chest.
“Thank you,” I say honestly. “Our locks are… not great.”
“I noticed,” he says.
Of course he did.
I adjust the knot of my robe, tugging it tighter even though it’s already tight, because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t fidgeting like a nervous child.
He shifts his weight slightly, and the floorboard gives a soft creak. He’s close enough that I can smell him. Clean soap and something warm underneath it. Something that feels like him.
My cheeks heat again.
“I—” I start, then stop because I don’t know what I was going to say. Goodnight? Thanks for being here? Please don’t be shirtless in my bed because I will actually combust?
Nico’s eyes drop to my face again, like he’s reading me in real time.
I hate how easily he can do that.
I shift my weight back, clearing the path to the bathroom.
“It’s… right there,” I say, nodding at the door like he can’t see it. Like he needs directions in a hallway that’s basically six feet long.
He steps around me, close enough that my body goes tense on instinct.
Not fear.
Just awareness.
He stops at the bathroom door and looks back over his shoulder.
“You’re flushed,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact, like he’s pointing out I forgot to lock my car.
My stomach drops.
No. No, I’m not. You can’t even see—
“I’m tired,” I say immediately. “It’s been a day.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he knows that’s only half of it.
He doesn’t call me on it.
He just turns, pushes the bathroom door open, and pauses.
“One more thing,” he says.
I swallow.
“What.”
He looks at me again, and in the dim light I can’t read everything in his expression, which is probably for the best.
“Stop running,” he says.
I stare at him.
“I wasn’t—”
He lifts a brow.
I shut my mouth.
The corner of his mouth twitches again, almost amused, almost not.
“Go to bed,” he says. “I’ll be two minutes.”
Then he steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind him, leaving me alone on the landing with my heart thudding so hard, I can feel it trying to explode out of my chest.