there's an entire room between them, and she thinks it might be a comical sight to someone on the outside looking in —as if they cannot get far enough apart, as if they're using the space between them as a buffer. and maybe that's a little bit true, maybe that space is a safety net waiting to catch within it all of the second thoughts and hesitations and cold feet that might be expected.

but it isn't empty — the space between them — it's filled from corner to corner with anticipation, maybe a little bit of apprehension, tension thick enough to cut through with a knife, and a lot of questions about what might happen next.

she stands by the door, not as if prepared to bolt ( she's made the decision to invite him into her space, and she wants this, even if it's the last time ), but so that maybe he won't be able to see the slight tremble to her fingers as she works the buttons of her blazer, and maybe he won't hear the pounding of her heart as she watches him watching her from across the room. that seems almost impossible, however — the echo of it in her ears sounding like a bass drum has taken up residence there, making it difficult to think.

but beth doesn't want to think. she doesn't want to think about the fact that this is only one of a few times she's actually invited him into her home, and the only time she's invited him into her bedroom. she doesn't want to think about the way he stands there waiting for her to make a decision — the way he always has — and how while this one, right here, right now, is the right one for her goodbye, it feels so wrong at the same time. she doesn't want to think of goodbyes and last times and what happens once this is all over and he's not in her bedroom anymore, and she's not his partner anymore, and then they're nothing to each other again.

she doesn't want to think.

so she steps closer, and he meets her half way, and she doesn't feel bold or brave or like a boss. she doesn't feel the way she had in that bathroom. this is different. she's nervous, like she's learning her way around someone else's body for the first time, even as she flushes at the very vivid memory of their bodies fitting together one time before. and for a moment — when she looks up at him — she thinks she might not be the only one holding her breath, like maybe there's something more there than the smug smirk he usually wears when looking at her. and maybe this is a huge mistake because it feels a lot heavier than she'd expected when the wheels of this plan had first begun to turn in her mind. it feels weighted in a way she couldn't have anticipated, but maybe should have known.

so she kisses him, because she wants to, and because he's right there and she can't stop herself now.

and it's nothing like she expected — softer, somehow — and a part of her thinks that's just for her benefit, but a bigger part of her knows better.

there's a tiny voice in the back of her head whispering oh, no when she pulls back and finally looks up at him, catching the way he's looking at her just before he moves to kiss her again in a way that's not as soft but just as intense, and it's a little bit awkward at first until they find their bearings, but then she never wants to stop, and oh, no if she'd thought she was in trouble before.

but that voice continues its mantra over and over again long after she's tied the belt of her robe and stood from the bed, when she's unable to look at him as she says it's over, when she's standing in the shower until the water runs cold. when she returns to her bedroom to find him gone — just as she'd suggested — the voice grows a little bit louder. oh, no.