I take the fastest fucking shower known to man, refusing to linger on it... refusing to think about him like I really want to. There's a part of me that doesn't want to wash him away. The lingering smell of him on my skin, on my clothes, in my hair. If I let myself linger on it, I'll lose my fucking mind.

More than I have already.

I'm still damp when I pull on my clothes, hair messy around my face and dripping wet and when he walks back in, I'm barefoot in front of the fridge. I'm still learning this kitchen. Nothing feels quite right. All these packaged foods and factory-made appliances.

I look over my shoulder at him, hyper aware of every fucking movement he makes, and I say, "There's coffee in the pot."