Chapter 4 Close Quarters #3
I peek over at him, one eye squinting against the post light peeking in through a crack in the curtains. “Comfy?”
“The comfiest,” he deadpans, not even bothering to look at me.
I snort, rolling my eyes.
Lying here, I feel like we're both fragments of something awkwardly stitched together by this ridiculous situation. Two jagged edges forced into a shape that doesn’t quite fit.
There’s a massive fault line between us, stretching like a chasm down the center of the bed, and I just know it’s going to get in the way of this investigation if we don’t figure out how to behave like actual adults.
But I don’t know how to take back all the things I’ve done to make him hate me so much.
At this point, the list is long enough to be cataloged.
Publicly embarrassing him in front of his colleagues at Bellwood.
Forcing him to relive the case that wrecked his reputation.
Making things awkward between us when, at first, we seemed to really just get each other.
Not that any of it was ever personal. Not really. But try explaining that to the guy who looks like he’d rather be set on fire than share oxygen with me.
Theo stares at the ceiling, expression borderline pained. Then, abruptly, he swings his long legs over the side of the bed.
"Where are you going?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"The couch."
I glance at the tiny, Victorian-era abomination in the corner, its delicate wooden frame and stiff, button-tufted cushions looking about as inviting as a medieval torture device. "You are at least six-foot-three, and that couch was very obviously designed for someone’s pet cat."
Theo ignores me. He grabs his pillow, stalks over to it, and—judging by the immediate look of regret on his face—realizes his mistake in real-time.
He tries to stretch out, shifting, adjusting, trying again. His legs dangle completely off the end. His shoulders barely fit between the back cushions. The armrest digs into his spine.
I prop myself up on one elbow, enjoying the show. “How’s that working out for you?”
Theo doesn’t answer right away. He just glares at me, withering, like I am solely responsible for every bad thing that has ever happened to him.
Then, with a heavy sigh of resignation, he turns his gaze upward, no doubt contemplating whether suffocating himself with his own pillow would be the better option.
I sigh, long and dramatic. “Just come back to bed, Theo.”
“I’m fine.”
What you are is a petulant toddler, is what I want to say. Instead, I settle for, “You’re not fine. You look like a murder victim someone tried to stuff into a suitcase.”
He doesn’t respond.
There’s only a beat before the quiet snaps with a loud, splintering crack. For one horrifying second, I think something catastrophic has happened.
But no. It’s just the couch deciding it’s had enough of Theo’s structural integrity test.
He barely has time to release a loud, “Fuck!” before the antique chaise gives up on life entirely.
The delicate wooden frame groans, then cracks, one of its ornate legs skidding across the floor as the entire thing collapses beneath him.
He lands hard, limbs tangled awkwardly, the remains of the chaise tipping sideways like a sinking ship.
In that space of stillness, he just lies there, eyes going unfocused in mute resignation.
I press a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking. “Blink twice if you’re still alive.”
He doesn’t move. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because from here, it looks like you just lost a fight with nineteenth-century craftsmanship.”
When he finally turns his head toward me, his glare could set me on fire.
Begrudgingly, he hauls himself up from the floor, dignity in shambles, and stalks back to the bed, dropping onto it physically pains him.
To be fair, it probably does.
The mattress dips, but neither of us moves toward the center. The space between us is intentionally maintained, like we’ve mutually agreed that even a toe crossing into neutral territory would be an act of war.
“New rule,” he mutters. “A two-foot buffer zone at all times.”
I shift ever so slightly closer just to be an ass. “Oh, come on. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Well. Sometimes I do, but you already know that.”
His eyes snap open, glaring and unimpressed, a wordless threat written all over his stupidly symmetrical face.
I hold up my hands, all innocence. “Fine, fine. Two-foot buffer.”
He closes his eyes again, his entire body radiating exhaustion. Emotional, physical, and specifically me-related. If I’d known my thesis would make him hate me this much, maybe I would’ve chosen a different one.
Probably not, though.
At least he’s here now, willing to forget the past long enough to give us a chance at rewriting the future—to right one of the countless wrongs tied to this family, and maybe mend something between us in the process.
Strictly for closure. Definitely not because I enjoy his company or whatever.
I watch him for a second, taking in the tense set of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch before he forces them still. Then, with a deliberately sweet expression, I lean in just enough to make it obnoxious and whisper, “Goodnight, boyfriend.”
He doesn’t even bother opening his eyes to look at me this time. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
I beam. “It’s been suggested once or twice.”
He grunts. It’s a noncommittal, world-weary sort of sound that somehow manages to encapsulate his entire opinion of me in one non-syllable.
“You know, you may think I’m a pain in the ass, but like it or not, you’re going to have to pretend to be a little more smitten than you did today, or else no one is going to buy it.”
No response. Only the rustle of fabric as Theo shifts onto his other side, presenting me with the broad expanse of his back.
I stare at the stretch of muscle and ego currently pretending to sleep beside me. It’s insane how familiar he feels, even when he’s trying to shut me out.
I also wonder when, exactly, I became the type of person who gets jealous of a pillow.
I make a face at him that he can’t see, then wriggle into the least uncomfortable position possible, shoving one of my own pillows between us like a makeshift peace treaty.
A very fluffy, very necessary boundary to ensure I uphold my end of the two-foot buffer when I inevitably start starfishing in my sleep.
I let my eyes drift shut. The room settles into silence.
As I’m drifting into unconsciousness, I swear I hear him mumble, “I don’t really think you’re a pain, Lila.”
It’s barely a hoarse whisper, half-swallowed by sleep.
In the morning, after blinking blearily and trying to remember whether it was a dream or just wishful thinking, I decide I must have imagined it.
Lila: Morning, besties. I have survived my first night.
Calla: Oh good, you weren’t mysteriously bludgeoned in the night.
Lila: Honestly, I was betting on Theo doing it just to escape this fake dating situation.
Serena: The week is young.
Calla: HOW DID YOU SLEEP
Lila: With a two-foot buffer zone between us that neither of us could cross without actual legal repercussions.
Serena: …You two are the worst slow-burn romance I’ve ever read.
Lila: Thank you. Anyway, Theo tried to exile himself to the tiny antique couch that was definitely not built for a man who could bench press me.
Calla: How long did that last?
Lila: One minute. Two, max. Then the couch gave up on life and he was forced to come back to bed radiating defeat.
Serena: I’m actually crying.
Calla: Did you spoon for warmth?
Lila: ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Serena: You hesitated.
Lila: BECAUSE I WAS TRYING TO TYPE THROUGH MY RAGE.
Calla: Soooo how much longer before you two are forced to fake makeout?
Lila: Bold of you to assume he won’t strangle me with his tie first.
Calla: I’m sure he can find better uses for his tie when it comes to using it on you
I blatantly ignore that suggestion and take a good long while brushing my teeth before I even bother picking my phone back up.
Calla: Anyway, what’s on the agenda today?
Lila: Dinner with the Mayfairs. Send prayers up to Fanny for me.
Serena: Ooooo, rich people theatrics. What’s on the menu?
Lila: We don’t even need a menu. We already know I’m about to dine on pure dysfunction.
Serena: Make sure to grab some wine. You’ll need it.
Lila: Oh, don’t worry. I’m fully prepared to drink through this entire meal.
Calla: Good girl.
Serena: Godspeed