The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us into this cramped hotel room that smells like stale rain and cheap carpet freshener.
Britney’s small hand slips from mine as she darts toward the king bed, her rain-dampened curls bouncing. The space is tight—a single bed dominating the center, and a tiny bathroom door ajar.
Roland drops his bag with a thud, his presence already filling every corner, his wet shirt clinging to his chest in a way that outlines muscles I shouldn’t notice.
My heart hammers, not just from the storm outside, but from the storm brewing in my veins.
God, why does he have to look like that?
All brooding intensity, with eyes that linger too long.
“Are we going to be sleeping in the same bed?” Britney blurts out suddenly, climbing onto the mattress and kicking of
