Close Enough to Fall

“I’m going to shower,” I say, already halfway off the bed.

Behind me, I hear movement—soft, deliberate. Then his voice, closer than I expected.

“I’ll join you.”

I freeze mid-step, turning just enough to catch his smirk.

“You’re not serious.”

He tilts his head. “Dead serious.”

“Nope. You shower after me,” I say, slipping into the bathroom. He’s right behind me, so I give him a playful shove toward the hallway—but it’s like trying to move a wall. He doesn’t budge.

“Or...” he says slowly, voice laced with amusement, “we could save water. Be efficient.”

Before I can argue, he steps in and shuts the door with a click, locking it behind us.

“Alec,” I warn, my voice light but unsure.

He leans closer, smile tugging at his lips. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”

I should.

I don’t.