The bathroom fills with steam fast. I have the water as hot as it goes and I stand under it with my eyes closed and my hair soaked through and for a few minutes my brain actually goes quiet.
Then the door opens.
I know before he says anything. The weight of the footsteps. The way the air changes.
“Occupied,” I say.
Silence.
“Need my contact solution,” Cain says.
I open my eyes.
I look at myself through the fogged glass. At the water running over my skin, down my waist, over my hips. At the shape I’m making against the frosted door with the light behind me. My hair is down, all of it, the curls plastered to my back, and I know exactly what he can see from where he’s standing.
I should tell him to come back. I should say nothing and wait him out.
Instead I reach up and drag one fing
