I knock.
She opens immediately, which means she has been waiting near the door and intends to pretend otherwise.
Oversized shirt. Bare feet. Hair down. Notebook on the bed behind her. No blazer armor, no media-room distance.
Her eyes go to my shoulder, then my mouth, then back to my face.
“This is a bad idea,” she says.
“You texted me.”
“I said your limp was fake.”
“You were wrong.”
“So you came here to correct the record?”
“I came here because you noticed.”
The truth lands between us, too blunt to retrieve.
Peyton’s hand tightens on the edge of the door.
For once, she does not answer quickly.
I should take that as mercy and walk away.
Instead, I say, “Tell me not to come in.”
Her breath shifts.
“Would you listen?”
“Yes.”
That matters. I see that it matters.
Peyton steps back.
I enter.
The door clicks shut behind me.
The room is small and too warm, lit by one lamp near the bed. Her laptop is open to a blank document with my name in the title.
I see it and look away.
Wanting her is bad enough.
Seeing my name on her screen is worse.
“We should talk,” she says.
“We are talking.”
“No. We are using words as foreplay.”
My laugh comes out rough. “That a professional diagnosis?”