On the Way Down

Chapter Nine

"Are you sure you're okay with that?"

"It's totally fine. I'm sure it's a lot more comfortable than the sofa." I sound breezy, but now my brain is jumbled with questions about why he seems hesitant about it or if I'm imagining this.

"Okay. Thank you." He glances away from my reflection and plucks his toothbrush from its holder.

His stoic response is underwhelming, but it's in line with the last few hours. I turn away from the door and walk over to the dresser, where I open the drawer he mentioned. The only light in the room comes from the moonlight outside peeking through the open window curtains. I pull out the first T-shirt I find, and then perch on the edge of a chair in the corner to wait for him to finish brushing his teeth.

When he emerges from the bathroom, he's no longer wearing a shirt. This is normal, since he only wore his boxer briefs to bed when we were together, unless we fell asleep naked after making love. What I didn't expect is the magnetic pull his bare chest has on my attention. My gaze lands on his chest and six-pack abs, then roams a little farther to the V-line that is partly obscured by his pants. His body is still as incredible as it was when I used spend hours exploring every inch of skin I see.

"Do you need anything?"

My head snaps up. He's looking straight at me, which means he knows I was checking him out. Let's hope he didn't also read my mind.

Years ago, if he'd caught me getting an eyeful, I would have replied to his question with something sexy or coy. Tonight, I shake my head and get up from the chair, because I don't trust myself to answer him. I'll return to my senses after I stop ogling him.

"Do you want my phone for the flashlight?" He holds it out to me.

"Thanks, I have mine." I continue past him, into the bathroom.

Washing my face and brushing my teeth gives me the time I need to collect myself. When I change out of my clothes and pull Phoenix's T-shirt over my head, though, the nostalgia nearly knocks me back to where I was when I came in here. I used to wear his shirts all the time, especially in the mornings after I stayed over at his place.

The slate blue shirt is a mini-dress on me, hitting mid-thigh. It's modest enough thanks to its size and my small frame, so I don't know what about it prompts the flutter in my stomach when I pick up my phone from the counter and open the bathroom door.

Then it strikes me: It isn't the shirt at all. It's what wearing it makes me remember.

Phoenix is already in bed, propped up against the pillows and watching something on his phone. I turn my phone's flashlight off as I approach the other side of the bed, and then set the device on the bedside table. He glances at me when I lift the corner of the duvet. For a moment, I swear he tenses up. Whatever is going on with him, my nerves and patience are both too frayed to want to think about it.

He clears his throat. "Are you okay with that side? I just assumed--"

He cuts off his own sentence, perhaps because he was about to make a reference to when we shared a bed more often than we didn't. This is the side I slept on, at least when we didn't end up spooned together in the middle of the bed. And now I have memories of spooning to deal with, too, thanks to my overactive brain. I should have let him sleep on the sofa.

"Yup. It's still the side I sleep on." I keep my tone light as I get into bed and pull the covers over me. "What are you watching?"

"A comedy thing I found on YouTube."

He sits up and reaches for one of the pillows behind him, then uses it to prop the phone up between us so I can see the screen. It gives me a reason to stare at something other than him and his chest and those damn abs. My overstimulated senses welcome the reprieve.