I walked the hall in his brother's shirt and nothing else.
The house was quiet the way a house gets when the husband is on a double and the guest has been warned. My bare feet on the wood. The crack of light under Wes's door. I could have turned around at the bathroom. I didn't. I pushed the door with two fingers because it stuck, the way I had told him it would.
Wes was on the edge of the bed. Jacket off. Shirt unbuttoned. He looked at the hem, at my thighs, at the fact that I had not put pants on after he asked.
"You didn't text him," he said.
"Not yet."
"Then you're not here for a towel."
"No."
He stood. He didn't rush. He came close enough that the shirt brushed his stomach and stopped, one hand on the door, closing it until the latch caught and did not lock.
"Say what you want
