The door locked with a soft click.
I stood there with the towels still in my arms and the water bottle pressed against my side. Michael looked at me like he was putting pieces together in his head.
“You’re the one from downstairs,” he said. “The glass.”
I nodded once. “Yes. I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry for walking in here. Wrong key. I’ll go.”
I turned toward the door.
“Stay.”
The word stopped me. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t soft either. Just clear.
I looked back at him. He hadn’t moved to cover himself. Shirt still half off his arms. Trousers open. Bare chest rising and falling steady.
“I shouldn’t be in here,” I said.
“But you are.” He pulled the rest of the shirt off and dropped it on the chair. “Put the towels down.”
I set them on the small table near the door. My hands
