Chapter 2: Nighttime Walls

After Caleb changed into pajamas, he climbed into bed. I pretended to read, but my eyes kept drifting to him. He wore those old-fashioned pajamas—long sleeves, long pants—the kind you see in cold medicine commercials, not honeymoon suites.

[Old man shirts are better, easier to sneak a touch, but I only dare to touch a little, afraid he’ll wake up.]

[Sigh, I really want to give him a sleeping pill.]

[Then I could do whatever I wanted.]

The idea made my cheeks burn, even in my own head. I imagined what it would be like to trace his jaw or brush my hand across his chest without him stiffening or pulling away. My gaze lingered on the lamp, the clock, anywhere but his eyes.

I stared at the page, expression blank. Caleb, who had just sat down, suddenly lifted the comforter and got up again.

He moved with a kind of anxious precision, as if the bed were too hot or the mattress too lumpy. He always had a restless energy before sleep, and tonight was no exception.

I asked, “Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“My sleep’s been bad lately. I’m going to take a sleeping pill.”

His voice was muffled as he dug through the drawer, the amber bottle rattling. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding, or if that was just my imagination.

I didn’t pay much attention, just lowered my head and kept reading.

I traced a line of text with my pinky, pretending to be absorbed in the story, but every little movement he made registered in my periphery.

When Caleb came back, he’d changed again, now wearing that old man shirt.

The faded flannel looked oddly comforting on him, the fabric worn soft from years of washing. It hung loose at his wrists, the buttons a little mismatched.

He explained, “It was too hot.”

I replied coolly, “Mm.”

My voice sounded distant, like I was speaking through a closed window. I didn't trust myself to say anything more.

Caleb lay down. Maybe it really was too hot—he only covered himself up to his belly button, one arm propping up his head, his chest broad and muscular, the lines of his muscles so clear it was hard to look away. Better than the male lead in some graphic novel.

His skin gleamed faintly in the moonlight, and I had to force myself not to stare. I tugged the comforter up to my chin and stared resolutely at my book, even though I hadn’t turned the page in five minutes.

He quickly fell asleep. I thoughtfully turned down the air conditioning. After reading a while longer, I turned off the light and went to sleep.

The click of the remote and the cool air blowing gently over us seemed to mark the end of the day, as if routine could smother longing. I reached up and clicked off the lamp, letting the darkness swallow any lingering embarrassment.

In the darkness, Caleb silently opened his eyes, looking complicatedly at Natalie lying beside him. She was already asleep, eyes tightly closed, breathing shallowly. No sneaky touches, no water boiling. Only Caleb stayed awake until dawn.

He lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan as it spun slow circles, the tick of the wall clock echoing each second he couldn't sleep. He listened to the subtle rustle of her breathing, so close but so impossibly far. As the sun bled through the curtains, Caleb let out a quiet sigh, the weight of unsaid things pressing heavy on his chest.