I’ve been standing in the shower for twenty-two minutes trying to wash the feeling of his voice off my skin, which is not how water works but my body is still vibrating at a frequency that Knox Voss set two hours ago and no amount of hot water is going to reset whatever he rewired in my nervous system tonight.
I wrap a towel around myself and step into the hallway, and Knox’s bedroom door is open.
It’s never open at this hour. He keeps it shut the same way I keep mine shut – a boundary that exists more in theory than in practice but that we both maintain for the sake of the fiction that we’re normal people living under the same roof.
But tonight the light from his bedside lamp spills into the hallway in a warm stripe that crosses my bare feet, and I can see him sitting on the edge of hi
