Cool off

You step away from the window.

The image of Ellie at her sink stays behind your eyes longer than it should — the soft t-shirt, the heavy shape of her breasts shifting underneath it, the brief flash of stomach when she reached up. You tell yourself it was nothing. Just an open curtain and bad timing. Still, the quiet house suddenly feels too warm.

You head down the short hallway to the bathroom, strip off the dusty t-shirt and shorts, and turn the shower on cold.

The water hits hard and sharp. You stand under it longer than necessary, letting it run over your shoulders and down your chest, trying to wash the residual heat out of your system. It only half works. Every time you close your eyes you see the way the fabric had clung to her, the soft give of her body under it, the fact that she had no idea you were watching.

You finish, towel off, and pull on clean clothes. The place still smells faintly of cardboard and packing dust.

Your phone sits on the kitchen counter where you left it.

You do have her number. She gave it to you the first afternoon, after the brief wave and introduction, in that quiet, slightly shy way of hers — “just in case you need anything while you’re settling in.” At the time it had felt purely practical. Now the message thread sits empty under her name, waiting.

You pick the phone up, unlock it, and stare at the blank conversation for a few seconds longer than you mean to.