ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

23. the worst for my enemies

warning: this chapter's a lil ✨steamy✨ nothing too crazy, but if that makes you uncomfortable please skip!

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MY HOTEL ROOM seems a lot smaller with Dane in it.

Dane who's taking his time surveying the room in vague interest, gazing briefly inside my suitcase with no remorse whatsoever, pulling back the curtains to look out the window like he's never been outside before.

"Why does your room have a better view than mine?"

"Obviously the coordinators knew what they were doing," I retort from my spot at the foot of my bed, keeping myself perched on top of the covers with the soles of my stompers.

He turns around to shoot me a look before letting the blind fall shut again, leaving the room in a muted darkness. "Probably a mistake."

"I doubt it."

"Doubt all you want. If the people knew who they were dealing with, you would've gotten thirteenth floor dumpster view."

"You're projecting, Doggy." My eyes roll, finger starting to thrum anxiously against my arm. We're taking our sweet time, building the tension in the room by avoiding the elephant—the poems. I lift up my legs to settle more comfortably down into the duvet as if that will ease my nerves. It doesn't.

"Just speaking the truth." His eyes drift over to Ruby's bedside dresser, scanning the mountain of candies piled on top before flashing back over to me. "Unfairness aside, how's your nose doing?"

It's hard to contain my surprise at the question, genuine curiousity seemingly hidden under the indifference of his tone. "It's fine—better, I mean." Then after a second, I add, "Why?"

"I'm not allowed to ask questions?"

"You're asking one right now."

"Rhetorical." He leans back against the windowsill, crossing his arms. "Now why don't you—?"

"Let me see yours first." I interupt, hoping to dispel some of this stupid nervous energy. This is Dane Anderson, for god's sake. What's the big deal?

"Mm, no, I think I should see yours first." He doesn't move from his spot against the window, thin beams of evening sunlight slanting in between the cracks of the blinds and his shadow.

"I asked first."

"It was more of a command," he says, still infuriatingly calm. "And you cut me off before I could make the request that you go before me."

I tug at the strap of my dress as if it's cutting off my air supply. "Rock, paper, scissors?"

"Is this preschool?"

"How else would you recommend solving this?"

"We default to the person who began asking the question first."

"And how do I know you weren't about to say something else?"

He holds my eyes, and for a second, I think we're about to have a staring contest before he peels himself from against the blinds, walking over to my bed. "Fine, I'll play."

"Great." I situate myself criss-cross applesauce before placing my fist in my palm.

He stands in front of me, mirroring my hands with his own.

We play the first round with me chanting rock, paper, scissors under my breath in the silence of the room, a thrill of excitement bounding up my spine as my paper covers his rock, nails pressing into his skin in glee. "Oof, looks like you're first, Doggy."