5. Enough
Enough
Natalia
Back in my hotel room, the tension feels like something physical, like something or maybe someone pressed against me.
I feel it the second the door shuts. It settles into the carpet, the walls, the sheets I haven’t even touched yet.
It’s in my throat. Along my skin. The back of my neck.
All the places I don't want Kiri Chhim to exist, places I don't want to imagine his hands or his mouth.
I don’t want it. I don’t want to feel it at all.
I drop my bag onto the chair harder than necessary and stand there in the middle of the room, glaring at nothing.
My body has the absolute nerve to still feel him nearby, like proximity has left some kind of residue on my skin.
His scent keeps coming back in pieces, uninvited and infuriating.
Incense and sweetness, the cotton of his shirt, the leather from his jacket.
Hair gel and heat. That stupid, expensive, warm smell that makes him seem calmer than he is, softer than he deserves, like he didn’t bow his head to Rafe and end things, like he didn't ruin everything because he got scared. It’s stupid.
It’s unfair. It makes my skin feel stretched so tight I can’t live in it, can’t breathe in it.
I hate it.
I hate him.
I hate his big, dumb, ridiculously handsome face. The face that dared to pretend seeing me wasn't pure torture, that he tried to act like none of it ever mattered.
I kick off my shoes before stomping to the bathroom, ready to drag myself through my nightly routine like every bottle on the bathroom counter is a miniature Kiri, venting my frustrations with every squeeze and slap.
I slather my face in an oil cleanser first. Then I follow it with toner, serum, another serum but this one's pink and more expensive, moisturizer, eye cream, lip mask, lotion everywhere because everyone knows soft skin begins by being glazed like a p?czki (donut).
By the time I smooth it over my thighs, my nerves are sparking in a way that makes me stop and glare at my own reflection in the hotel mirror.
“Stop it,” I mutter, slapping on little under-eye masks like a final punishment.
Finally, I crawl into bed like sleep might do me a favor for once.
It doesn't. I toss and turn, the sheets twist around my legs, clinging to me until I shove them away with a hiss of irritation.
My brain keeps circling back to dinner no matter how violently I try to drag it elsewhere.
His hand around his glass. His fingers flexing when he reached for the banchan.
The brush of his finger against my nail when I passed the kimchi.
His eyes catching mine for half a second too long before he looked away.
Coward. He's a coward and I'm, what? An idiot, that's what. I’m the idiot lying here thinking about his hands.
I roll onto my stomach and press my face into the pillow, making a muffled sound that isn't a scream only because this is a very expensive hotel and I refuse to be escorted out for yelling into a ten-billion thread count pillow over him.
My body, apparently unconcerned with my potential embarrassment, floods with memory.
The breadth of him. The way he stood too close without touching me, as if he had any right to take up that much space near me or in my nervous system.
I roll onto my back, flailing in annoyance, staring up at a ceiling that contains no relief from my thoughts, just patterns my eyes trace in an attempt at distraction.
Eventually, without deciding to, my hand slides down my stomach, more reflex than intention, chasing the idea of release just to make the feeling stop. I freeze. Then I practically launch it away from myself, sitting bolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted.
“No!” I mutter out loud, furious. “I’m not touching myself over Kiri fucking Chhim." I point at the ceiling like God has been called to witness. "Absolutely not, not after what that asshole did!”
My heart pounds, while my body remains tragically unconvinced.
“Oh, you really drank dumb bitch juice at dinner instead of wine,” I mutter, glaring down at myself. “I am not doing this!”
The words echo uselessly in the quiet room.
I fling myself back again, glaring at the ceiling, beyond annoyed with myself.
I roll over, then scroll through the photos from dinner.
The pretty plates and glossy table. A selfie where my cheekbones look immaculate and my eyes look like I haven’t been considering sexual masochism for the last forty minutes.
I post a few with bright captions and adorable emojis, the digital version of a perfect smile.
Look at me. So cute. Terribly busy. Completely unbothered.
Especially not by him. Not by the way his mouth tightened when I laughed at something Rafe said or the way he kept pretending not to watch me. Definitely not by the fact that every time his gaze dragged over me, my body lit up like a match struck in a dark room.
Kurwa!
I drop my phone onto the bed and lay there, breathing hard, annoyed enough to chew through the fancy marble foyer downstairs.
Enough. If my body wants to be restless, I’ll give it something to do that doesn’t involve fantasizing about a bassist with commitment issues and tattoo-covered forearms sent directly from hell.
The hotel gym is twenty-four hours, because this place caters to people who don't sleep, people who fly across continents, people with so much money they don't have to live by the normal rules of society. Early mornings, late nights, it’s all the same when you’re busy and beautiful.
I pull on the grey workout set I packed as a devious part of this plan.
Yoga pants that hug every curve, a matching sports bra, grey trainers.
I twist my hair up and tuck it under a grey baseball cap.
In the mirror, I pause and look at myself, dressed down but still unmistakably me.
I peel the under-eye masks from my face and toss them into the trash before leaning closer to inspect the results.
Practical and fresh-faced, but still hot.
I smile and snap a quick mirror selfie before I can overthink it and consider posting it.
The thought arrives that he'll die when he sees it, probably bite his fist in frustration over all the ways he'd love to get me out of this outfit.
I smirk to myself, it's so petty and delicious. I click post. He can choke on it.
The elevator ride down is quiet, but my pulse isn’t. It keeps picking up, stupid and eager, like my body thinks this is some romantic movie instead of me taking preventative measures against losing my mind. When the doors open, I step into the gym with my chin lifted and my earbuds already in hand.
Heads turn immediately.
They always do, but tonight I enjoy it more than I should.
Every glance feels like proof. Every flicker of attention from someone who isn't Kiri feels like a little twist of the knife.
See? I want to tell the universe. I'm not sitting around wanting one emotionally unavailable man with pretty hands and a spine made of wet paper. Then I see him.
Kiri is at the free weights, grunting with effort, sweat slicking his skin, lifting like his life depends on it.
His arms flex with every rep, tattoos fully on display, muscles tensing and releasing in a way that makes my traitorous brain light up all over again. For a split second, my steps falter.
I recover quickly, turning my head away, shoving my earbuds in and pretending my heart isn’t trying to punch its way out of my chest. I focus on the treadmill console, fingers tapping at the settings, my reflection in the mirrored wall carefully neutral.
I came here with purpose. The purpose is not looking at or thinking about him.
The purpose is becoming so physically exhausted that my body stops protesting.
I tap at the treadmill console, keeping my face blank. In the mirrored wall, I can see just enough of him to be punished by it. He lowers the weights with a heavy, frustrated exhale, and the sound slides straight down my spine.
Rude.
Then I feel it, his attention lifting. I don’t need to look to know the exact moment he sees me.
It hits the air like a pressure change, like his heat behind my shoulder.
Every nerve in my body has decided to be dramatic at once.
I stare forward. The treadmill comes to life beneath my feet.
I don't look back, but I know he’s watching.
And the worst part, the humiliating part that makes me want to sprint until my lungs burn, is that I like it.
I like it so much I want to kill him for making me feel like this.