The next morning, I practically vault out of bed and sprint to the shower before Caleb's alarm even goes off. Because facing him after last night? When I can still feel the phantom weight of his body pressing me into the mattress? When I know exactly what he sounds like when he loses control?
Hard pass.
But when I drag myself home that evening—after a day of pretending I give a damn about the briefings when all I can think about is the way Caleb's muscles tensed under my fingernails—I find the apartment quiet. His bedroom door is closed, a sliver of light underneath the only sign he's even home.
By 9 PM, when he still hasn't emerged, I realize what's happening. He's hiding from me. Like I'm some kind of s*x-crazed lunatic who's going to pounce on him the second he steps into the hallway
