Before today, I would've caved in a heartbeat. Pulled her into my arms without a second thought.
But those words—plant two cabbages—were lodged in my skull like a needle.
No matter what I did, I couldn't pull it out.
I looked at her.
She was still beautiful.
Soft eyes, lips pressed together in a slight pout, that hint of playful petulance she always wore so well.
I'd looked at this face for five years. Knew it so well I could trace every line with my eyes closed.
But now, with her pressed against me, she felt like a stranger.
A wave of nausea surged up from my stomach.
I pushed her away before I even realized what I was doing.
Her hand slipped off my arm. Her whole body went rigid.
A few seconds of silence. Then she lifted her head, her voice still impossibly gentle.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
"Long ride home. I'm wiped out. Not in the mood. Next time."
I lay down the moment the words left my mouth. Turned my back to her.
She didn't press. Just turned off the lamp.
The sheets rustled for a moment, and then she was there, curled against my back, her arms wrapping around me from behind. Her chin settled into the hollow between my shoulder blades, her breath warm and steady.
"Next time, then."