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The bathroom door opens twenty minutes later, and whatever sense I had left walks straight out with Sweet.

She is wearing sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt with faded sunflowers on it. No makeup now. Hair damp and loose down her back. Bare feet instead of pink shoes.

She looks younger. Softer. More dangerous to my peace than any Reaper on the road.

She stops when she sees me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You say nothing like it’s something.”

“It is.”

Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt. “Do you have something I can sleep in besides the bed? A blanket, maybe? If you want the bed, I can take the couch. I’m smaller.”

“No.”

“There’s that word again.”

“You get the bed.”

“You’re very committed to being uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in ditches.”

“That’s not the argument you think it is.”

I step toward her. “You always got to have the last word?”

“No.”

I wait.

She sighs. “Usually.”

A real, low, unplanned laugh breaks out of me.

Her face changes when she hears it, like the sound surprised her in a good way.

Then her gaze drops to my mouth.

Again.

This time I am close enough to do something about it.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re wondering.”

“I am wondering.”

My blood heats. “About?”

“Whether you kiss as dirty as you talk.”

Every bit of restraint I own strains.