The bed dipped.
She turned her head.
He was there. Beside her on the narrow bed, lying on his side facing her, the same unhurried quality of attention he'd had all day — the purple eyes visible in the dark.
"'The floor is fine,'" she said. Barely above a whisper.
"'I know,'" he said.
He didn't move back to it.
She looked at the ceiling.
"'What do you want,'" she said.
The question was not a challenge. It was — tired. The specific tiredness of a person who has been managing their own reactions all day and is at the end of their management capacity.
He leaned close.
His mouth at her ear.
"'I want to fuck you.'"
The words in her ear.
The warmth of his breath against the side of her face. The specific, immediate physiological response of a body that had been navigating toward and away from this information all day and now had it stated plainly.
She felt her face — heat. Her jaw tightened.
She said nothing.
From the fold-out: Celia's breathing, steady and deep.
