She demonstrated how the shower worked and apologized for the small selection of shampoo and conditioner. After she left—explaining that the door needed to close just so, or it would open again, even if I locked it—I spent a full minute with my nose in her peach scented bath products.

She was too busy being overprotective to realize I only wanted this moment: to be standing in her bathroom, smelling like her. If I were catching feelings for Amy, which I’m not, I’d pretend this was an everyday occurrence. Maybe that I lived here, that we shared shampoo and clothes and a bed. But I’m not catching feelings. None at all.

I look down at the clothes Amy gave me. The sweatpants are too long, of course, but she’d already taken the liberty of rolling up the hems when she gave them to me. Even when she is hurting, she’s trying to take care of me. She tries to make it impossible for me to do the same. But there’s one way I can care for her. And it doesn’t require sweatpants.

Steam billows around me as I open the door. Amy sits on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. She looks tired, maybe a little broken. Before I can chicken out and close the door again, come crawling back out with my clothes on and my tail between my legs, I step over the threshold. Music plays softly from the laptop propped up on the kitchen counter. A scented candle, something that smells like it would be called Christmas Tree Farm, burns on a small table next to the windows. She’s turned off all the lights in the apartment except for the one above the stove and two lamps on either side of the bed.

Between the soft light and the warm ambience, this feels romantic. But it’s not. I have to remember that. I walk across the apartment. The rugs that cover the floor make it easier to sneak up on her, so my seduction can’t be interrupted. I stop in front of her, press my belly gently to the top of her head, and run my fingers through her hair. She seemed to like that earlier. I don’t think a lot of people touch Amy with tenderness. Probably, she doesn’t let them.

“Hi.”

She sits up and my hand falls away. With her eyes closed, Amy wraps her arms around my towel-clad hips, pulling me into the space between her legs. She buries her face in the towel.

“Hollywood.” She says that terrible nickname like other people would curse. “I told you I didn’t invite you up here for anything other than sleep. I’m being good.”

Good? What’s that supposed to even mean? “Did you ever consider asking me if I wanted you to be good?”

“I didn’t ask you up here to sleep with me,” she repeats. “But you look...” She shakes her head. “So beautiful, Sophie.” She says my name softly, like it’s delicate. Her hands follow the curves of my hips; her fingers tickle where the towel meets my thighs.