I am drowning in a sea of my own regret. Every second that passes since I stepped out of that room is a second I spend berating myself for my lack of composure. But God, she is beautiful. Even with her eyes closed, trapped in the vulnerability of sleep, she is more than beautiful. Gorgeous, pretty, hot—those words feel like insults, too small and too common to describe the masterpiece I just witnessed. I had intended to check on her for a fleeting moment, but I became a prisoner to her grace. I watched the way her dark hair spilled across her forehead like silk, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, and that smile—that faint, ghost of a smile that graced her lips while she dreamed. I found myself wishing, with a sharp, unexpected ache, that I could be the one causing that expression.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sharp rapping on the wood shattered my fantasy like glass. I adjusted my expression into a mask of indifference and opened the door. Juliet stood there, enveloped in a thick gray blanket, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice steadier than my heart.
"Evander told me that you could tell me about your guys' 'thing,'" she said, her chin lifted as she looked up at me. She is of average height, but standing before me, the disparity is comical; she looks like a small, defiant bird, her head barely reaching my chest.
"We have many things together," I replied, rubbing my chin thoughtfully to hide my amusement. "He should have been more specific."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she snapped, her eyes flashing with a spark of genuine anger.
"Oh... I remember now." I snapped my fingers in mock realization. "You might want to sit down for this." I stepped aside, ushering her toward the dinner table with a sweeping gesture.
"Okay, so should I get my phone ready to call an ambulance?" she muttered, and the sass in her voice almost—almost—forced a chuckle out of me.
I leaned against the table, watching her. "The actual advice from the doctor wasn't just a recommendation not to live alone. It was a recommendation for you to sleep with Evander."
"What!" she gasped, her face contorting in horror. "Me? Sleep with him?" She pointed dramatically at an old high-school prom picture of Evander hanging on the wall, as if the very idea were a biological impossibility.
"It's not a joke, Juliet. It's a sensory anchor. It's supposed to reduce your night panics."
"No way. I'm leaving." She turned on her heel and marched into the living room, heading straight for her suitcase.
"Don't even try going back to your house," I said, my voice trailing after her with a smirk. "You signed a six-month contract for that house with the new tenant. You're legally homeless if you walk out that door."
Watching her go absolutely bonkers is quickly becoming my favorite pastime. She stopped in her tracks, spinning around to glare at me. "Then I'll rent an apartment! Or stay at a hotel!" she shouted, her expression radiating the triumph of someone who thought they had outsmarted a grandmaster.
"He has personally called every reputable hotel and leasing agent in this district and threatened them," I said casually, picking up an apple from the bowl on the table and taking a crisp bite. "No one will take your credit card."
"No, he didn't!" she snapped, though her voice wavered with the realization that Evander was exactly that insane.
It took hours of verbal sparring and circular arguments to bring her back down to earth. Slowly, as the weight of the medical necessity began to sink in, her defenses started to crumble. She wasn't happy, but she was realizing it was for her own good.
"So," I asked, breaking the final, heavy silence, "what about our reconciliation dinner?"
She looked at me, a small, mischievous glint returning to her dark eyes. "Oh, I get to choose the place. And hopefully, it will hurt your bank account."
"Anything to stop the silent treatment, Julie," I replied. I paused, testing the air. "Can I call you that?"
"Of course," she said, a genuine smile finally breaking through her frustration. "As long as you don't act like a jerk, Mark."
She smiled at me—not a ghost of a smile, but a real one—and for the first time in my life, I felt the unmistakable, fluttery chaos of butterflies in my stomach.