“I’ve never much thought of it as a home.” Other than a narrow dresser in the corner, the bed and its lone nightstand take up most of the space. And besides my clothes—now folded neatly on top of that dresser—there’s not much out and around. On the nightstand—clean-lined and dark, almost black wood—there’s a sleek, brushed-steel light and a single hardback book, its cover shiny with a clear plastic sleeve, a label on the binding from the library. I lean up to see the title—The Island at the Center of the World—and peek inside the flap, and this, along with the slim gray bookmark (of course he uses a bookmark) sticking out from the top, tells me that Reid is halfway through a history of Dutch Manhattan during the seventeenth century. I close the cover and push my face into the pillow, wondering if I might have another orgasm from knowing this, from picturing Reid in this big bed at night, propped on this exact pillow, reading a library book, trying to understand something on his own about a city where nothing—nothing but me, maybe—makes sense to him.

But after a few seconds, the quiet in here—combined with the brutal plainness of it—starts to make me feel uneasy, as though I’m a temporary, unwelcome intrusion into the space. I look over at my clothes on the dresser, strain harder to listen for movement outside this room. Maybe he stepped out, maybe I should take this opportunity to leave before it gets post-sex awkward. I could write him a note, tell him to call if he wants....

No, I tell myself, refilling my head with images and sensations from the last few hours. I sit up quickly and roll from the bed inelegantly, smoothing my mass of surely frizzy hair and reaching for the stack of clothes, bypassing everything in favor of the T-shirt I lent Reid. I pull it on and make my way out to the living space, the skin on my legs tingling with goose bumps as the bare soles of my feet meet the cool smoothness of the glossy parquet floors.

He’s sitting on his couch, a low-to-the-ground, sharp-cornered, dark gray thing that looks absolutely terrible for naps or for sleeping off a night of drinking and fighting. His clothes look comfortable—a pair of light gray athletic pants, a white T-shirt, but he’s sitting stiffly, his phone in his hand, the thumb that so gently soothed the back of mine only hours ago now flicking impatiently, irritatedly over its screen.

“Hi,” I say.

Immediately his head raises, his thumb ceasing its movement. The soft relief in his eyes, the swoonsh he sends my way—it all goes a long way toward easing my mind about whether he wants me here still.