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I wake with a start.
My apartment is dark. My bed is snuggly warm, and two strong arms cage me in.
I shift and startle as if I’d forgotten that Zebb was in my bed.
“You stayed,” I whispered, surprise in my voice.
“I didn’t want you to be alone.”
His comment sets me on edge when it shouldn’t. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. “I’m going to get something to drink.”
I wiggle out from under his touch and slip off one side of the bed. I walk the few steps to the front hall where our first scattering of clothing remains and I pick up his T-shirt, slipping it over my head. Lifting the collar to my nose, I inhale the scent of Zebb. Cinnamon and campfire.
And sudden sadness, something that has a distinct fragrance marked by uncertainty.
I pad out to my kitchen and fill a glass with water from the dispenser on the fridge. When I turn around, Zebb is on the other side of the island wearing only his boxer briefs.
“You’re shutting me out again.”
“I’m thirsty,” I lie although the water does taste refreshing.
Zebb stares at me, reading me. “Earlier we didn’t finish our discussion. The one about emotions. Not the ones from when we were kids. The ones we have now.”
“Dowe have feelings now?” I tip my glass in his direction before pulling it back to my lips, hating that I’m asking, hating the sarcasm that is a constant defense.
“You tell me.” For the first time, Zebb sounds uncertain. Vulnerable even.
“Was this just a funeral fuck?” My voice is soft, cautious even.
“A what?” he chokes out.
“You know.” I wave out at him. “You feel sorry for me, so we fuck. But eventually you’ll go.” I’ll lose him. He’ll walk away like my mom, and my dad, and even he once did.
“Eva, if you think this was a funeral fuck, then I definitely did something wrong.” Zebb exhales and gazes down at his hands, braced on the kitchen island. Then his head pops up.
“You said yourself we had a connection, a vibe. We were in tune with one another. It’s here.” Zebb points between us. “Almost.” He stares at me. “I want that girl again. She’s inside you, waiting to come out again.”
“I’m not that girl anymore.”
“No, you’re a fucking gorgeous woman.” He huffs again. “A successful, determined, sarcastic, beautiful woman. Who works too hard and thinks she doesn’t care when she does. I know you do.”
We stare at one another across the island, and I set down my glass of water.
“You feed the homeless. You sat with an ailing mother. You’re sweet with Tam. And you fucking fit me.” He taps his fist over his heart. “And if you think we’re just fucking, then let me make love to you.”
“Who says ‘making love’?” Tension slowly releases from my shoulders. He’s standing in my apartment in boxer briefs. He’s told me over and over he wants me.
I need to do something that doesn’t come easily to me.
I need to trust him.
“Put me inside you again.”
My body hums. I want him again. And he wants me.
But there’s more in his request. He wants me to let him in—into my heart.