Strengthened by the force of her conviction, she turned the water off, yanked a fresh towel to her chest, and stepped out of the shower.
Kh?i paused in the middle of brushing his teeth and turned around to look at her, letting his gaze sweep over her bare skin. It was impossible not to notice he was hard again, and her treacherous body warmed in response. Foolish, foolish body.
She stalked past him and shut herself in her room without a word. If she tried speaking, she’d either cry or yell at him. After stepping into another pair of white panties and putting on her sleeping clothes, she shook out her blankets and made her bed on the couch. No more bed sharing.
As she pushed her legs under the covers, a knock sounded on her door, and Kh?i stepped into the room, wearing a fresh pair of boxers.
He rubbed at his neck as he took in the blankets on the couch. “You’re not sleeping … in my room? Like usual?”
“The couch is fine.”
His brow wrinkled, but after a while, he nodded. “All right, then. Good night.” Flashing a shadow of a smile at her, he shut the door, and his footsteps receded as he returned to his room.
She punched her pillow before she pulled it out from under her cheek and hugged it next to her body like it was a person. She didn’t need to sleep with him. Her anger would keep her company.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The first thing Khai saw the next morning was the empty other half of his bed. No Esme, not even a wrinkle on the blankets. Was it normal to want space from someone after you had sex with them? He didn’t understand it, especially when she had nightmares when she slept alone, but he didn’t know what to do other than leave her be.
He sat up, put his feet to the floor, and speared his fingers through his short hair. He’d slept like the dead—great sex probably did that—but everything felt off today. The walls were too gray, the room too dingy, his bed too big. Even his carpet looked extra ugly around his bare feet, and its softness wasn’t enough to make up for its offensiveness.
Hoping routine would set things straight, he went about his regular Sunday morning tasks. He got ready, choked down a protein bar, and lifted weights, but Esme never left her room. He knew because he watched for her the entire time.
After he showered, he found her sitting on the couch reading a textbook as a cartoon movie played on the TV. He got his laptop and joined her on the couch, thinking to work while she studied, but as soon as he sat down, she got up and disappeared into her room.
What the hell was going on? Was she sick of him now that they’d had sex? He wasn’t sick of her. If anything, he wanted her more, not less. Frowning, he left his computer on the couch and went after her. Outside her door, he took a bracing breath, opened his hands wide to stretch them out, and knocked.
The door swung open shortly after that, and Esme faced him. She wore her yellow Em yêu anh yêu em shirt over knee-length shorts and had her hair in a sloppy ponytail with a pencil over her ear. She was so beautiful she made his chest hurt.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
Her lips thinned as she stared at him.
“Why are you acting this way?” He wanted her back to the way she used to be.
She tipped her chin up, looking mutinously stubborn, and the perverse desire to kiss her rose. He almost acted on it, but she looked likely to bite him. Except then her eyes went glassy and her breaths quickened. “I do what I want.”
“Are you hungry? I can—”
“No, thanks.” She shut the door in his face.
He stared at the door for a good minute. What in the world was going on? Had he … done something wrong? He couldn’t think of anything. There’d been the sex, which was amazing, and afterward, he’d showered right away so he didn’t smear his sweat all over her. That had taken monumental effort since he’d felt like someone had shot him with a hippopotamus tranquilizer. What was it? He wished he understood people.