Page 56 of Not Safe for Work

When I awake, the bed is empty. Sunlight filters around the edges of the slatted blinds, and I sit up, attempting to quell a flare of disappointment at finding myself alone. A moment later, I hear Rafe through the cracked door on the end of a phone call.

I hesitate. I should probably give him some privacy. But I also kick the blankets off and tiptoe closer on silent feet across the cool white tiles. From my narrow vantage point, I see he’s pacing the living room, his phone pressed to his ear. I’m officially Rafe’s creepy stalker.

There’s no anger in his voice, but there’s a strained set to his shoulders and a withered defeat in his tone. “Hannah, we’ve been over this.”

I go completely still. I shouldn’t be listening. This is none of my business, but a sick part of me needs to know. Maybe a small part of me understands that Rafe being free and available means I’ll be forced to confront the fears I’ve been clinging to for years. Will I ever be ready for a relationship again? What about with someone I work with? Would he also betray me if things went wrong? I’m not sure if I can handle that again.

A wave of nausea spirals straight to my feet.

It would be safer if Rafe got back together with Hannah. For me.

And if not, I’ll have no choice but to consider that other Rafe who could easily smash my heart into splinters. The Rafe who comforted me last night and held my hand and chose to stay with me instead of abandoning me. The Rafe I pushed away, but who always existed in my periphery like the moon circling the earth.

But maybe I have nothing to worry about. Years ago, I thought he was flirting with me, and then he started dating someone else. Until two days ago, he’d never even smiled at me. He can barely tolerate me.

All we’ve ever done is argue, and maybe I’m the only one who considers that a form of foreplay. I recall the disagreement we got into a few months ago because we couldn’t decide on the calculation of a pressure vessel.

He’s just trying to keep the peace, given our proximity. The blankets and the apology and defending me against Evan—it turns out Rafe is simply a better person than I ever gave him credit for.

Rafe huffs out a sound of irritation. He storms across the suite and stuffs his feet into his gym shoes lying by the door. He slams it behind him, cutting off his voice and leaving an abrupt, echoing silence.

I wait, watching the door, wondering if he’s coming back. After a minute, I steal into the kitchen and notice a cloche-covered plate on the counter. The remnants of a meal sit on another plate next to it. I lift the lid to find a burger and fries with little silver cups of both ketchup and mayo nestled on the side. Something in my stomach flutters.

Standing at the counter, I scarf the entire thing down, one ear peeled for Rafe’s return.

Rain has started falling again, so I decide to go for a jog on the treadmill. I change into gym clothes and tie on my shoes, which I managed to salvage from the mud pit.

When I leave the suite, the hallway is empty. I wonder where Rafe has gone.

A few minutes later, I emerge at the gym level to find it deserted. Everyone is probably resting after the storm, but I have too much pent-up energy pooling along my nerves.

I head for the bank of treadmills, stepping onto one and pressing a few buttons. It sings to life with flashing lights. A powerful blast of air-conditioning pebbles my skin as I set my water bottle in the holder and punch a few more buttons on the display. I set it for sixty minutes before the belt whirrs to life.

Putting in my earphones, I break into a slow jog as it speeds up. I crank up the volume on my “Running for Your Life” playlist, preferring it to be as loud as reasonably possible to help lose myself in the rhythm. Plus, it prevents anyone from talking to me.

I’m twenty minutes into my run, sweat breaking out on my forehead, when a presence appears next to me. I shoot a dirty look to whoever chose the machine next to mine when a dozen others sit empty.

It’s Rafe.

He’s changed into snug black shorts and a sleeveless top that hugs his torso in all the right ways. Valleys of shadows and light play against the dips and curves of his arms and his face.

My obsession that’s not an obsession has never been more obsessive.

I tear my gaze away, focusing on the view outside.

I sense his movements. His eyes on me. He drops his water bottle in the holder and punches some buttons as his treadmill speeds up.

His pace kicks up, and I feel him peering over at my dashboard. I narrow my eyes as he smirks and very deliberately increases the pace on his machine so he’s going 0.1 miles per hour faster.

I think not.

I jab the button, upping my tempo just above his. He lets me run there for a minute as I steal glances at his profile. After a moment, he pointedly increases his speed again.

Now I’m getting annoyed. I should just stop. This is so dumb. I have nothing to prove. I could run faster if I wanted to. I don’t need his validation. But he is so ridiculously smug that I fantasize about a roundhouse kick to his ego.

Despite my annoyance, there’s something weirdly calming about competing with him in a pointless battle of wills. It’s our safe place. Our normal. It helps settle all these bizarre new feelings that surfaced last night.

So, I lean into it.