Chapter 13 Thirteen

Chapter 13 Thirteen
REINA’S POV

The subway ride home felt longer than the one out. We took the bus for the second half like Orion promised, sitting side by side on a half-empty route that wound through quieter streets. I kept my hands folded tight in my lap so they wouldn’t reach for him again.

Every time the bus swayed and my shoulder brushed his, heat climbed up my neck. I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past and tried to pretend my heart wasn’t still racing from the way I’d clung to him underground.

By the time we stepped back into the penthouse, my skin felt too tight and my thoughts were a jumbled mess. Orion disappeared into his office with a quiet “I’ll be working” that sounded more like an escape than a plan. I nodded, mumbled something about needing a shower, and fled to the guest bathroom.

The hot water helped at first. Steam filled the glass enclosure and I stood under the spray until my fingers pruned.

But the moment I closed my eyes, there he was: the solid wall of his chest under my cheek, the steady thud of his heart against my ear, the way his coat had wrinkled where my fingers gripped it.

I could still feel the wool under my palms when I smoothed his lapels, the warmth of his shoulders, the faint tremor I’d sworn I felt run through him when I called him a support beam.

I turned the water colder. It didn’t help.

I wrapped myself in a towel, pulled on soft shorts and one of his old T-shirts that had somehow migrated to my drawer, and tried to lie down. The bed felt too big and too empty. My skin buzzed. Every time I shifted, the fabric slid against me and reminded me of how his shirt had felt against my face on the train.

I couldn’t stay still. I needed something to take my mind off him.

I gathered my clothes from the hamper and headed to the laundry room off the kitchen. Bessie lifted her head from her bed in the corner, bleated once, then flopped back down. I smiled at her, grateful for the small distraction.

Then I saw his pile.

A neat stack on the folding counter: sweatpants, T-shirts, a couple of dress shirts he must have worn earlier in the week. The collars were still crisp, the fabric soft from wear. I hesitated. I’d always kept our laundry separate. It felt like a boundary, a small way to remind myself this marriage was temporary, contractual, not real.

But tonight the boundary felt thin.

I reached out and lifted the top shirt. It smelled faintly of his cologne and something warmer, like sun on skin. My stomach flipped. Before I could talk myself out of it, I added the whole pile to my load.

I measured detergent the usual way, then paused at the fabric softener. His expensive store-bought bottle sat on the shelf, clear and blue. I ignored it. Instead I pulled out the small jar I’d brought from home: Mom’s recipe. Lavender buds steeped in white vinegar with a touch of essential oil, diluted just right. It made everything smell clean and like summer fields instead of chemicals.

I poured it in, started the machine, and watched the water swirl.

Twenty minutes later the wash was done. I transferred everything to the dryer, set it low so nothing shrank, and sat on the floor with my back against the warm machine. Bessie wandered over and rested her head in my lap. I scratched behind her ears and tried to breathe evenly.

The dryer buzzed. I pulled the clothes out in armfuls. They were warm and soft. And they smelled like lavender. Not the sharp fake kind. The real kind: soft, herbal, like the bushes Mom planted along the garden path back home.

I folded one of his T-shirts slowly. My fingers lingered on the fabric. I lifted it to my face and inhaled. Lavender. Him. The combination made my knees weak.

I carried the stack to his room before I could change my mind. The door was ajar. Light spilled from the hallway into the dark bedroom. I stepped inside and set the folded clothes on the dresser. His bed was made with military precision, sheets tucked tight. The room smelled like him even without the laundry.

I turned to leave.

He was in the doorway.

ORION’S POV

I’d been staring at the same email for forty minutes when I heard the dryer buzz. The sound pulled me out of the office like a tether. I told myself I was just getting water. I told myself I wasn’t listening for her footsteps.

I was lying.

The hallway was dim. Her bedroom door was open but the light was off. Bessie’s bed was empty. I followed the faint lavender scent drifting from the laundry room and found the space deserted, the machine silent, the counter cleared.

My clothes were gone.

A strange tightness settled in my chest. I walked toward my bedroom on quiet feet.

She was there.

Standing beside my dresser with her back to me, one of my T-shirts still in her hands. She lifted it to her face and inhaled. The motion was slow, almost reverent. My pulse slammed against my ribs.

She turned.

Our eyes met.

She froze, the shirt clutched against her chest like evidence.

The air between us thickened. I could see the flush climbing her neck, the way her lips parted on a silent breath. She looked caught, guilty, and impossibly beautiful in my old T-shirt and tiny shorts, hair still damp from the shower.

I stepped inside the room.

She didn’t move.

The lavender scent wrapped around us both, stronger now, mingling with the warmth of clean laundry and something sweeter underneath. Her scent. Sunshine and skin.

I took another step.

Her fingers tightened on the shirt.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence stretched, electric and heavy.

I didn’t know what would happen if I closed the distance.

I didn’t know what would happen if I didn’t.