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Her face colors. “That’s irrelevant.”

“It seems relevant.”

She steps inside and shuts the door with the kind of care that tells me everything I need to know.

This time I don’t rush her. I sit in the armchair and pull her into my lap. She protests for maybe half a second before her knees settle on either side of me and her mouth finds mine. Her skirt rides up. My hands slide under it. She gasps into the kiss when I touch her.

“You are terrible,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.”

“So do I.”

She laughs once, breathless and annoyed, and then her laughter breaks when I push my fingers inside her.

I keep one hand on her hip and the other under her skirt, working her until she has to hide her face against my neck.

She comes on my fingers with her teeth in my shoulder.

Afterward, she sits there breathing against me, her body still trembling. “We’re stopping,” she says.

“Of course.”

“You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being smug.”

“Yes.”

She bites my shoulder again, not hard enough to hurt.

Two nights later, she comes to my room with one of my shirts folded in her hands.

It’s not mine.

We both know it.

She holds it out anyway. “This was mixed with my laundry.”

I look at the shirt. Then at her.

“Elara.”

“What?”

“That’s Anya’s.”

She looks down.

It takes her one second to realize.

Then she closes her eyes. “Oh my God.”

I start laughing before I can stop myself.