Page 67 of Ruthless Dream

She shrugs, unbothered.

“You have to eat.”

“Just make another sandwich.”

I make her a grilled cheese this time, posting a photo on my Instagram stories. When I hand her the plate, her eyes light up.

“Thank you!” she says, careful not to get grease on her book.

It’s ten o’clock when I take a shower.

“Are you staying up all night?” I ask from the bedroom, wrapping a towel around my waist.

She doesn’t look up. “I don’t know.”

I brush my teeth and check my emails one more time. There’s only one light on in the living room, a lamp emitting a soft yellow glow. I kiss Adeline’s forehead and slip into bed, naked and alone.

But the night, just like the afternoon, isn’t uncomfortable. I’d prefer Adeline’s body wrapped up against mine, but the easy silence brings a peace I’ve rarely felt. The flat is my home for the time being, a space away from the chaos of the O'Connells. I like when Adeline is here.

Part of me holds out hope she’ll come to bed, but that slowly fades as my eyes close.

The bed dips, the blankets shifting.

“Did you finish it?” I rasp, rubbing my face.

“No,” she softly replies. “I didn’t want to rush it, though, so I stopped.”

“Come back tomorrow after class and finish it.”

Her hands cradle her head as she lies on her side. “I need to study. I really shouldn’t have taken today off.”

“You can have one day.”

“Says the workaholic.” There’s something in the way she says it. I guess she has been around enough to notice the work schedule.

There’s only the whirl of the ceiling fan and the blankets rustling as Adeline gets comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” I say into the dark. “About the somnophilia.”

There’s a pause, the weight of Adeline’s feelings pushing against me. “My sister Lennie introverts a lot. Like, we’d go to a busy restaurant, and my dad used to take her out to the car before we’d completely finished because he knew she needed a moment.

“My family thinks I’m the Energizer Bunny. And I do like keeping busy, I know that. But sometimes. . . I get overwhelmed too.”

I roll on my side, facing her. Hair has fallen into her face, and I already know it’s my duty to brush it back.

“It’s just a lot,” she whispers. “Everything.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with you trying to be perfect all the time?”

“Don’t start on that,” she begs.

“Next time you’re angry, just tell me that. Text it if you don’t think you can say it in person.”

“Text what?”

“I’m upset you didn’t tell me goodbye,” I reply dryly.

It might be dark, but I can still see her rolling her eyes. “Okay. Sorry, I mishandled things.”