To his credit, Zane didn't push it. Back home, he took his meds like a good boy. Then he winked at me.
What now?
"Zo, you didn't even say good job."
"Zane. You are seriously pushing your luck."
He slowly let go of the hem of my shirt, eyes drooping, and said, all deflated, "Oh. Okay. I'll go shower then."
Everything Zane did today put me on edge. The second he was gone, I collapsed onto the couch and buried myself in a video game. Derek sent me a dumb meme mid-match, and I was grinning at my screen like an idiot when an icy voice drifted over from behind me:
"You're that happy with him?"
I jumped. Then I turned around, saw Zane, and jumped again. Fresh out of the shower, and instead of pajamas the man was wearing a white dress shirt—two buttons undone at the collar, collarbone on full display, damp hair falling in a mess across his forehead. For one second I was looking at the boy from high school. My ears went up in flames.
I snapped my eyes away and stood up. "You—stop saying weird stuff! Anyway, you're done, so it's my turn."
Zane caught my wrist. Damp eyes looking up at me, bottomless self-pity.
"I saw you, you know. Texting him at dinner. Texting him while you were gaming.
"Do you like him that much?"
He had me cornered. Derek was funny, genuinely. But liking him, actually liking him? I couldn't say I'd gotten there.
I opened my mouth to explain—and Zane pressed me back against the couch, leaning in over me. My heart rate went through the roof. I stared him down, feigning calm.
"Zane. Did you use my body wash again?"
He completely ignored that. He took my hand and pressed it flat against his chest.
"Zo, am I really that good at hiding it?
"Because from where I'm standing, you don't see it at all."
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