Page 42 of Until The Lights Go Out

I glanced over my shoulder at him, eyes still watery, and managed a weak glare. “I mean it this time.”

“Fair,” he conceded, the corner of his mouth twitching.

He helped me up slowly, one hand steady at my elbow, the other hovering like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled as he guided me to the sink. “That was—humiliating.”

“Maisey,” he said, like the word itself was meant to stop me. “You were sick. It’s not a character flaw.”

I met his eyes in the mirror, my stomach flipping for an entirely different reason now.

He looked…softer. Still Theo—still sharp edges and quiet intensity—but there was something gentler threaded through it. He reached past me for a towel, handing it over. Our fingers brushed, and it was like touching a live wire.

I looked away first.

“C’mon,” he said after a beat. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Out of the bathroom, I assumed.

Not out of this situation.

Not out of this feeling.

He led me back into the room, his hand hovering at my back again, and for a second, I let myself lean into it. Just slightly. Just enough to feel it.

The bed suddenly felt…very real.

Very close.

Very him.

“I—uh,” I started, gesturing vaguely to myself. “I probably shouldn’t—like this. I feel gross and probably smell after that.” That earned a laugh from him, low and warm. I wanted to lean into the warmth of his words, so much softer than they were before—so much like the Theo from before. If I closed my eyes, we were back on a hillside, looking up at the star, shoulders touching as we lay next to each other.

“Hold on,” he said. He disappeared into his suitcase, rummaging for a second before pulling out a shirt and tossing it to me. It landed softly against my chest.

“Put that on.”

I blinked down at it. “Theo⁠—”

“It’s clean,” he cut in. “And significantly better than whatever’s going on right now.”

I huffed out a small laugh despite myself. “You’re so kind.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

I hesitated for half a second longer before turning slightly away and slipping out of my top, pulling his shirt over my head. It swallowed me whole, the fabric soft and warm and him.

It smelled like his cologne or maybe laundry detergent. Whatever it was, it was a familiarity that made my heart thump steadily in my chest. When I turned back around, he glanced over at me—but his gaze flicked away quickly, jaw tightening.

“Better, see?” he said.

“Debatable.”

A quiet beat settled between us. I climbed onto the bed slowly, tucking myself under the covers, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—of him, of the space, of the years between then and now sitting heavy in the air. He stayed standing for a second, like he was debating something. Then he sighed softly and moved to the other side, pulling back the covers and sliding in, careful to keep distance between us.

We lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling.

“This is weird,” I whispered.