I lingered in the shower, enjoying the rainfall effect and the hot steam that washed away all traces of this horrible night. Then I took the time to blow dry my hair and work it into a loose braid. I used a few unidentified products in bottles so pretty they doubled as décor and even found a lotion that smelled like sparkling champagne and strawberries—my favorite.

I hadn’t bothered asking which room was his when we came up here.

But as I sneak out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a fluffy robe, I can’t help but notice the light on in the room next to mine.

I pause outside his door, staring at the thin line of light shining into the hall. He mentioned he’d be up to check on Fielding. Will he even let himself sleep tonight?

I walk into the lavender room and take it in for the second time. It’s somehow even more beautiful than when he showed it to me.

There’s a pile of things on the bed: perfectly folded sweatpants and an Archway Prep LAX shirt that I recognize from my brother’s wardrobe. He also left me a cold bottle of water and a baggie of ice for my ankle, neither of which I thought to ask for but genuinely appreciate.

I slip into his clothes, pulling my braid out of the shirt collar as the fabric settles against my skin. Both items are comically big, but they feel right. This is the closest I’ve been to him since those seven minutes of heaven in the alley last week.

I lift the shirt to cover my nose and mouth, inhaling the clean scent of fabric softener with a distinctly Dempsey undertone. He’s got this sweet scent that gets more complex the longer I inhale. Fresh tobacco? A hint of caramel? I’ve never thought about how he smelled before. But now that I’ve gotten a whiff, I’m craving a hit directly from the source.

I crack open the water bottle and suck down half of it, but it does nothing to sate me. I stare at the inviting bed. Then I look back at the door.

I pad into the hallway and pull my door closed behind me, unsure what I’m doing, but confident it’s the right move. I creep down the hall until I reach the next door. When I try the handle, I half expect it to be locked.

The handle turns, and my desire lights up with the promise of what’s next. I don’t have a plan. I’m not working an angle. I haven’t thought through any of this—I just want to be where he is.