I sit upright in bed, glaring at Caine, who clutches my old pillow against his chest like some kind of security blanket. His knuckles are white against the pale cotton, and he's avoiding my eyes with the dedication of someone who's been caught doing something deeply embarrassing.
"This one's more comfortable for you," he says, nodding at the pillow he just slid under my head.
"What is your deal with pillows?" The words snap out of me before I can stop them.
His entire body straightens further. "I don't have a deal with pillows."
The silence stretches.
And stretches.
He doesn't say anything else, just stands there, rigid and awkward, clutching the damn pillow to his chest.
I sigh, and he immediately asks, "Why are you so angry?"
"I'm not angry." The response is automatic, defensive, and a total lie to my current state of emotions.
He raises an eyebrow, skepticism written across every part of his face, and I wince.
