12: DON’T TOUCH HER

A knock on the door woke Murewa up the next morning. He was completely drained and empty.

As the knocking persisted, he opened his eyes and slid further under the covers, hoping the person would take the hint and go away, but no. Instead, the door slid open.

Murewa sat up instantly, his anger stirring to life as he turned to see who dared come into his room without invitation.

His gaze connected with the old eyes of the intruder, and his anger died a quick death.

"Grandfather," he said reverently.

The old man leaned on his cane as he came to a pause at the foot of the bed, his eyes taking in the messy state of his room, the broken plate, the spilled food, the shattered tumbler, and discarded tray. "It's past eight, Balogun," he said finally.

"I am aware," Murewa answered. He wasn't aware.

"Care to join me for breakfast?" The old man slapped his cane on the floor twice and turned towards the door. "Starts in twenty minutes."

"Alright. I'd be there." Murewa agreed in a beat.

He loved spending time with the man.

The old man smiled and walked slowly towards the door, then stopped with his hands on the knob.

"Your Father would be there with his wife," he added gravely.

"Have a nice breakfast then." Murewa waved and slipped back under the covers.

"Please don't refuse, that's why I came here myself," the Grandfather said and got no reply, just as he expected. "I'll be seeing you shortly," he added and walked out the door, confident the boy would come.

                                     ***

"Oh, it's so nice to see you again, Murewa." Queen Habibah clapped excitedly when he finally joined them at the table an hour later.

He had deliberately delayed, hoping breakfast would be over by the time he got here but as he lowered himself onto the chair, he realized they had not even started.

"We were waiting for you," the Grandfather said with a knowing smile and Murewa glared at him, wishing he could knock the smile off.

"We can start now."

The servants laid various domes and trays of dishes on the table and as the delicious smell wafted up his nostrils, he realized he was hungry. He hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch.

"Here, let me help you," the Queen said, picking up his plates to dish out his food. Murewa slapped her hand away, his tolerance and patience were dangerously depleted and he had no time for her foolery.

"Murewa..." his father's low voice rumbled in warning and Murewa snapped his gaze to him, the man's betrayal of eighteen years ago still fresh in his mind.

"Keep your wife on a leash," he snapped and began to plate his food. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Habibah pat his Father's hand on the table, willing him to keep calm.

The conversation was light as they ate, with Murewa only answering questions that were put forward by his Grandfather while ignoring his Father and his Father's wife. He didn't care that he was being petty, he wasn't in the mood to be mature at the moment.

"I have not been to the new site since the last time we went there," Murewa said in reply to a question his Grandfather asked. "I have been so busy with training the recruits."

"It's okay," his Grandfather answered, gulping down a tall glass of water. "I have handed it over to the Minister of Works. He has been doing his job there diligently."

"When did all this happen?" King Bankole chipped into the conversation, his frown evident.

"I told you to stop making these kinds of decisions without consulting me first."

The Grandfather laughed merrily. "I know, but most times I end up thinking I have told you already. Plus, it's what you would have done. The Minister of Works handles stuff like this."

King Bankole remained mute.

"Dessert." Queen Habibah clapped and some servants appeared again with trays of food.

Murewa didn't think he could stomach any more food. He had no mental strength for his usual training or workout today and he didn't want to stuff himself if he wasn't going to work it out.

He scraped his chair back and tried to sound polite. He knew he had been a real jerk this morning. "I would like to take my leave now." He turned to his Grandfather. "See you later?"

"Stay for a bit, Balogun. I have something I wish to discuss."

"Grandfather," he groaned, conscious of the servants heaping food into the plates on the table.

"Stay, please. Just for a short while." His Grandfather reached across the table to pat his hand and Murewa tried not to pull away, tightly enduring the brief feel of the man's velvety hands against his.

As the man pulled his hand away, Murewa noticed a network of veins and wrinkles across the hand. It was the first time he was seeing wrinkles on his Grandfather.

"This is not what I ordered for." He heard Queen Habibah's voice go up and rolled his eyes. Every time they had a meal together, she always had something to complain about. Nothing was ever good enough for her.

He heard a loud crack as she slapped someone across the face and sighed, praying for the whole charade to be over soon; so he could go back to bed.

"What did you say?" Her voice rang out again, tainted with disbelief.

"I said I am not a kitchen chef, My Queen. I am not to blame."

Murewa froze at the sound of that voice. It was the voice that had been haunting him for days, finally driving him to the point of mindlessness yesterday. He looked up to see the Queen deliver another slap across the servant girl's face again and gripped the table so hard, shocked by the intense gravity of his sudden anger and pain.

He had always hated the Queen, but the sheen of tears suddenly pooling in the girl's eyes made him want to get up and wring Habibah's neck.

The girl kept her gaze steady on the Queen, the tears refusing to fall as she held her head up stubbornly. He stood abruptly, turning over his chair. No goodbyes, nothing. He just left.

His fast-legged pace took him farther away from the wretched room towards his own and he found himself becoming blindly angry at himself for getting angry that a servant girl got hit.

He arrived at his door and unfortunately, another servant girl was scurrying past, her head bowed, trying to melt into the wall behind him to avoid being seen.

"Hey," he snapped and she jumped, her hand clutching her chest as she turned to him with fear in her eyes. "Call Jamila for me. One minute," he barked and went straight into his room to wait.

Mrs. Jamila barged into the room seconds later, looking harried and scared. Her mouth fell open as she took in the unclean state of his room.

"Good morning, My Prince." She curtsied briefly, her eyes down.

"How many fucking servants do we have in this place?" he barked, pacing the length of the room.

He had opted to stay on the opposite end of the room, far away from her because he didn't want to be responsible for her death. But she was so shockingly stupid he could just snuff the life out of her right now.

"Hundred and twenty-two, My Prince. Plus a hundred more as captives from Amu," she answered.

"You are telling me we have about two hundred servants crawling around this place." He went still, his eyes glaring into her scared ones.

"Y-yes, My..."

"Two hundred fucking servants and you decide to take the only one that was supposed to clean my room and be at my service this week up the hall to serve Habibah breakfast?"

She looked lost for a moment before finally understanding what he was on about. Her gaze flickered to the messy room again.

"I am so sorry, My Prince. I would get someone to clean up this mess immediately." She rushed towards the door.

"Go get a broom. And a mop," he said and she paused by the door.

"My Prince?" Her voice shook as the gravity of what he was asking bore down on her.

"Did I stutter?" He snarled and she shook her head, disappearing out of the door immediately.

She came in minutes later with drooping shoulders as she held the cleaning instruments. He was still standing in the same position, waiting.

"Now, clean!" He ordered, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction as she attended to the mess on the floor. He realized his satisfaction came from the look of discomfort on her face. She didn't like what she was doing, but he didn't care.

He let her work and slipped into the bathroom, going naked and slipping under the shower, letting the cold water beat down his head.

The image of the girl's face came to him again, her face held high as she faced the Queen, but her eyes were a different story. They were so expressive.

Minutes later, he wrapped the towel around his waist and went back into the room. The woman was still cleaning.

"Go and get me water," he ordered as he put on his clothes. She dropped the broom and left the room.

Murewa picked a book from the shelf and sat back on the bed to read, but he couldn't focus. His mind kept wandering to the girl.

It was the same book she had read to him yesterday morning and he smiled as he recalled her sitting beside him, a smile on her face as she read. It was like she enjoyed doing something so simple with him.

He remembered the feel of her hands on his face yesterday and closed his eyes to relive it again.

"Take a deep breath...hold it in...let it out."

He had never felt such peace and he wanted her to just keep holding him like that...it had been so long since he felt such peace from a simple touch.

The door opened again and in came Jamila with a glass of water. She bowed as he took it from her and went back to cleaning. He took a sip and placed the glass on the bedside table, before holding the book securely in front of him, forcing himself to read the words.

                                      ***

The breakfast was finally over and Abike walked back to the kitchen with the rest of the staff. They were talking amongst themselves, throwing insults at the Queen, while she remained mute, nursing her wounded pride.

The Queen has slapped her twice and for what? Because she wasn't happy with just one dish. One dish!! Out of twenty-something dishes she was served. Her heart dropped when she realized she was supposed to report to the Prince's room immediately and she wished there was a way to avoid it.

He had said he didn't want to see her face yesterday, so she wasn't sure today would also be a good time. And she was sure if she faced him now, she would die of embarrassment. He was there when the Queen hit her.

She arrived at his door and knocked once before going in. She met Mrs. Jamila already approaching the door with a mop and broom.

Her heart slammed into her chest as she remembered she had left the room in a mess yesterday and now Mrs. Jamila had cleaned it. She was in big trouble.

Her eyes met the woman's and she looked away from the anger she saw in them. She moved out of the way as the woman charged out of the room.

Then she was alone with the Prince who had a book in front of his face.

"Good morning, my Prince."

The book came down and their eyes met from across the room. He studied her intently for a minute. "Morning," he replied and Abike was taken aback by the slice of gentleness she detected in his voice. It was even the first time he was responding to her greetings.

"Is there anything you would like me to do for you today?" she asked, determined to keep her head straight. She wasn't going to let him walk all over her today.

He opened his mouth to say something, then suddenly, his eyes shuttered, the gentleness and vulnerability in them gone, replaced by ice.

"No. Leave." He raised his book again, obscuring his face. Abike made an ugly face at him and left the room.

***

He was the last to arrive again this time. He had trouble jumping down the basement because he had broken his leg last week from a fall. As he struggled down the stairs with his walking cane, he cursed whoever made the basement stairs so cramped.

The occupants of the room turned harsh lights on him as soon as he landed, blinding him for some seconds. "You are late Minister —"

"Shh!!" He snapped, struggling to adjust his vision to the glaring light. "I warned you against using names the last time. Call me One whenever we are having these meetings." He finally opened his eyes and peered at the three people present in the room, sitting behind the long table.

"And if you can't be bothered to remember an instruction so simple and yet very critical, I wonder how you would be able to support this mission."

They exchanged contrite looks and mumbled their apologies. "What's with the cane? What happened to your leg?" Four asked.

One waved him off and launched into the business of the day. "I will keep this particular meeting very short. Also, allow me to inform you that this would be our last physical meeting as it would be too risky to continue meeting like this," he started and raised a finger to shush the others when they opened their mouth to speak.

"I am very glad to inform you that our plan has officially started. I met with King Ola of Amu some days ago and he is with us on this."

"He has no choice. Either he bends to us or gets broken," Two said and they all laughed.

"He knows that well enough," One continued. "And our ultimate source —our Master and the key to all of our plans— has given us a very important chip. No one else knows this. Not even the Almighty Prince. With just this information, we are many steps ahead of him. We have him right where we want him," One explained, bursting with excitement at the news.

"Firstly, who is this important person that is behind all this? Who is that person at the top of Ore's food chain that wants the Prince dead so bad that he would join us in this?"

One studied them for a moment then decided it was finally time to tell them. If he didn't, they wouldn't believe in this mission a hundred percent.

And now, more than ever, he needed them because he couldn't do it all alone, he needed this to work.

He was positive it would, especially with the strength and connection of the person behind him; plus the repercussion of this heavy secret he had just been told.

He limped closer to the men and they leaned forward eagerly.

"Our ultimate source is..." he told them and their eyes went as round as saucers. They were speechless for what felt like an eternity.

"I don't know how to react," one of them said finally, echoing the thoughts on all their minds.

"Don't react. Think! This would work!" One pressed, taking advantage of the charged energy in the room.

"What is this secret?"

"I would tell you very soon," One answered carefully. "I don't want to rush everything at once. But we are about to have a new pawn in this game of ours..." he waited till he could feel their impatience and interest practically bursting out.

"...and his name is Olumuyiwa"

***

Jamal walked into Murewa's room hours later, sweaty and breathing hard from training.

Murewa scooted away as Jamal sank onto the bed beside him.

"Good Morning."

Murewa dropped the book he was reading and sat up on the bed. "You didn't wake me up this morning."

Jamal put his water bottle against his lips and took a swig. "I attempted," he said. "I came in here this morning some minutes to six a.m. and the room was a mess and you were out like a light, man. So I just felt you needed the rest." Murewa stayed silent.

"I would leave you now to continue your rest. Tinuke is waiting for me." Jamal smiled coyly and stood. "I came to give you an update on the boy. I got his name and age."

"What boy?" Murewa asked slowly.

"Fifty."

Murewa nodded, remembering the young boy.

"He is a strange and quiet boy, very arrogant too. He doesn't talk until he is spoken to and he seems to look down on everyone else."

"You don't like him," Murewa said.

"I don't dislike him. He is just unusual and gives me this feeling. Plus, he strikes me as very familiar, like I've encountered him or someone like him before." Jamal shook his head. "I'd hate to waste a beautiful woman's time. See you later." Jamal hurried to the door, remembering that Tinuke was waiting for him. He turned the knob, about to dash out when Murewa called.

"Yes?" He turned, his hand impulsively twisting the knob, pulling the door half open.

"I didn't get his name," Murewa said.

"Oh." Jamal laughed and turned back to the door.

"Olumuyiwa. Eighteen years old." He said and was out.

                                         ***

Abike saw Fatima come into the room some hours later and waved madly so the girl could see her. Fatima sighted her and approached, grinning with amusement.

"I didn't know you would be in here at this hour." The girl said, climbing Abike's bed.

"Girl, it's been days. Since that time in the Prince's room, I haven't spoken to you," Abike said, nudging her playfully. Fatima looked different. The frown lines and sadness that were often a vital part of her were missing. Abike hoped it was for good.

"Didn't you hear I got the Queen for the week?" Fatima rolled her eyes. "She is an actual witch."

Abike laughed. "I can't argue that."

"I don't envy you though, you got the Prince. He isn't a lesser devil. If I am to choose, I'd pick the Queen over him any day," Fatima said.

Abike remained silent as a vision of the Prince's dimpled smile floated to her mind. She had only seen it once, but it was an image that could never be forgotten. Could the devil himself have such unbelievable beauty?

"What's this I am hearing about an escape?" Fatima's voice dipped low. "It's being whispered around."

"Are you taking it seriously?"

"It's become too serious to not be taken seriously." Fatima frowned. "I think there is a plan, an element of truth. There is something someone is not saying."

Abike sighed. "I wish it's true, Fatima. I want to go home. I don't even know if my parents are dead or not."

Fatima's smile was strained. "I know. Mine was killed right in front of me. There is nothing for me in Amu. But it's still home."

Abike tried to imagine what it must have been like for Fatima. Seeing her family murdered in cold blood while she watched. Abike had been working at the Palace working when the war started. She didn't know if her parents back home had made it.

"You can stay with me. If my parents are alive, they would welcome you. If they aren't..." Abike sniffed. "It would be just the two of us."

"You look like you want to cry," Fatima observed and Abike laughed.

"The Queen gave you a break?"

Fatima shook her head and stretched.

"No. She heard the Prince didn't go for the evening training again and decided to go check on him. She seems to like the Prince a lot, but..."

Abike wasn't listening.

"Hold up, Fatima. Can you go over that again? The Queen went to see who?"

"The Prince. Because..."

"Shit!" Abike jumped down from the bed. She didn't like to cuss, but she could be in serious trouble this time.

"I just assumed the Prince would have left for his evening training, I didn't know he would be around. This is past five and I haven't served him lunch," Abike explained.

Mrs. Jamila was in the kitchen when she arrived.

"Where have you been?" The woman thundered, angrier than Abike had ever seen her. She couldn't say she had been in her room, so she lied.

"Laundry, ma'am."

The woman looked like she was going to shout again. Abike wished she wouldn't.

"Take the Prince's food to him now, servant," she spat and Abike hurriedly grabbed the tray.

The Prince hardly ever complained about tardiness or food or anything of that sort, so she hoped he let her lateness slip today.

She knocked once and opened the door to see him reading. He was still in the same position as earlier, with a book held to his face. Abike noticed as she approached the bed that it was the same book she had read to him the other day. Did the book make him think of her? 

"Good evening, my Prince." She dropped the tray on the bed and bowed.

The book lowered slowly and she met his gaze. He was so devastatingly handsome. It was just so unfair.

"Where have you been?" He asked. Somehow, he looked merely human today, and there was no trace of his usual hostility. Back to his question, she didn't know how to answer it. She stood shyly, withering under his gaze, wringing her hands in front of her.

"Bring me the tray," he said again and she quickly grabbed the tray and went to his side. He dropped the book and took it from her.

She stood awkwardly as he ate, torn between the desire to bolt and the desire to touch him. One was going to have her killed, so she opted for the other.

She turned to leave.

"Stay, mama," she heard him say softly and froze, before turning back to him. He wasn't looking at her, he was looking into his plate as he ate.

Mama. Whenever he called her that, she wanted to melt into a puddle because he usually said it so tenderly, she was subjected to a fantasy where the Prince liked her.

He always said it at the right time. When she was beginning to hate him, he calls her mama and the endearment just pulled all of her heartstrings.

But she knew that was what it was. A fantasy. No more. How could he like her? Prince Olumurewa? Balogun of Ore? She almost laughed at the thought.

"Why do you call me that?" she blurted and he looked up at her, there was no anger in his eyes. It was clear and bright. He seemed to be in a good mood. She decided to enjoy it before the full moon rose and he turned on her again.

"Mama? Why do you call me that? Is it because you don't know my name?" She rushed.

"Your name is Abike," he answered, picking up the half-full glass of water on the table beside him.

Abike stared at him in shock. "You know my name," she blurted stupidly and he smiled again. She knew this was genuine because his dimple appeared. It was gone as soon as it came.

He ate the remainder of his food and dropped the tray on the floor beside him. "Sit."

Abike sat, careful so no parts of her body would touch his. She found it unnecessary as he took enough precaution by moving backward slightly. Abike felt offended but decided to ignore it. She was about to have a moment with him. She wouldn't spoil it because he didn't want her to touch him.

Murewa picked up his book and raised it over his face again. Abike shifted nervously as silence descended between them. She fidgeted with her hands as she admired the way his cotton shirt clung to his chest. She suddenly felt a sensation between her legs and crossed them, tapping her thighs to make it stop.

"Is the silence uncomfortable?" he asked, lowering the book.

Abike wanted to say "yes" but she thought about it carefully. He was setting her up, for sure. He didn't care if she was uncomfortable or not.

"Hmm? No. No. I-it's not."

"You are fidgeting. Your legs are tapping the floor," he said and she immediately went still.

Suddenly, he was leaning forward, his fingers stretched to touch her. Abike's brain shut down. She wanted to tell him not to touch her, so he could feel the embarrassment and pain of it, but as soon as his fingers touched her cheek, she felt electrocuted to the spot, the liquid in between her thighs warming her bones.

"Now that you've met the Queen, do you like her?" he leaned back again.

"No," she answered immediately and his lips curled up. He caught himself before it blossomed into a smile.

Murewa watched the girl sit uncomfortably beside him. She was obviously wondering what he was up to, telling her to sit on his bed, but he couldn't help answer those questions because he was as confused as she was.

All he knew was whenever this tiny girl walked into the room, he felt peace. And all his life, he had been struggling with various unhealthy emotions, this slice of peace and normalcy was enticing and addictive. And since he got whatever he wanted, he planned to have her and keep her till he grew tired, which he knew would be soon enough. He never did have a long attention span.

As soon as this strange tender rubbish he was feeling was worn out, he would toss her out as fast as she came in. For now, he was going to ride the wave, while keeping a tight leash on himself, because he didn't have the chance to mess up.

Selfish, yes, but hundred percent guaranteed to work.

He had also noticed that whenever he shouted at her or acted nasty, he would feel a strong turmoil within himself. So for now, he would try not to get pissed or upset. It wasn't hard, his soul badly craved the peace she brought, and he had to strive so hard to even get mad at her.

Suddenly he noticed her nipples poking through the thin material of her dress and the way her thighs pressed together. She wanted him. His organ sprang to life in his sweatpants and he resisted the urge to pat it down.

The last time he had sex with her, he was disgusted by the position he found himself in afterward, wrapped around her like a second skin.

That slip was what his Grandfather usually termed "loose guard" and until he considered himself thoroughly able to withstand the amazing feel of her body against his without him dropping his guard or losing it entirely, he would stay away from her.

Awelewa was always available for sex. He never lost his guard with that one.

"What do you want?" he asked and she looked up at him, meeting his gaze for the first time since she came into the room.

The way he asked the question got her thinking. Did he already notice that she wanted to jump his bones? Or did he notice she had been staring at his lips for too long? He had said on that first day, that he didn't kiss sluts. Did he still consider her a slut? Would he push her away if she leaned in right now and kissed him?

She forced herself to stay still, her twitchy hands falling still in her laps. "I don't want anything."

"The silence bothers you, would you like to leave?"

"No," Abike answered immediately and looked down in embarrassment.

She didn't want to leave. She was afraid that if she left, this fragile bubble between them would break, and then he'd treat her the way he usually did.

She liked this gentle part of him. It made him feel human. His silence didn't bother her. It had shocked her at first when she discovered that as willful and terrible as he was in public, he liked to read and keep to himself whenever he was in the privacy of his room.

She just wished she knew what was going through his mind. She was afraid. Not the old fear that he would suddenly reach out and suffocate her to death —though that particular one was still very much present and reared his head occasionally whenever he looked at her with fury— this was a new fear. Fear that she was getting accustomed to this. Fear that she already liked him far too much. And she knew it could only lead one way. Hurt. Plenty of it.

"Who do you love most in the world?" she asked suddenly. He looked away briefly, shook his head, and returned his attention to her.

"The Grandfather," he answered. "Jamal," he added.

Abike wasn't surprised he loved his Grandfather and Jamal. One was family and the other was a friend. But something else nagged at her. "What about your father?"

"My father, hmm?" He looked away again. "He is dead to me."

Abike recoiled from the harshness of that statement. How could someone feel that way about their father? And the indifference with which he talked about it was downright cold.

She was here hurting because she didn't know if hers was alive or not.

"Why?" she asked.

He shrugged, his gaze holding hers now. "Maybe because he and his stupid father killed my mother eighteen years ago," he said. "Then he sent  me off to camp shortly after her death for another ten years and didn't even send letters or come visit me." He smiled but his eyes were empty. "And when I arrived back at the Palace ten years later, he had married another wife."

"Queen Habibah." Abike shook her head sadly. He tried to hide it but the pain was still evident in his eyes. He was still hurting from the events of eighteen years ago.

"How old were you when your mother died?"

"Twelve."

Her eyes widened as she took in this virile giant in front of her. Even sitting on his bed as he was now, he still filled the space vitally. He made every other thing seem small. "You are thirty," she blurted and was taken aback when he laughed.

His smile had been like a slice of heaven, but this laugh, she carefully filed it in a subconscious folder for examination later. The way his lips curled up, how another dimple in his right cheek peeked out, the crooked, fang-like tooth that was only visible when he laughed, she would examine all that later.

"Am I too old?" he asked, suddenly serious again; but his eyes remained bright.

"Well, no. I never really thought about how old you would be. Though, now that I think of it, you really can't be any younger than that."

"Hmmm." He folded his muscly arms across his chest and tilted his head to one side, staring at her. "You never really thought about how old I'd be?" He echoed and she nodded.

"That's great. You think about me then." He leaned back. His face looked so serious but she thought she detected a tinge of excitement in his voice as he said that. She was losing it.

"No. I..."

"When you think about me, what comes to mind?"

"I...I don't..."

"You are about to lie to me." He shook his head, all traces of playfulness gone.

"Do you think I am as wicked and unreasonable as people say I am?"

Abike didn't know how to reply to that. She didn't merely come to that conclusion because others played him out to be so, she had witnessed some of it herself.

"Do you think of me?" she asked boldly.

"Yes," he answered without missing a beat. Her breath caught in her throat.

"When you think about me, what comes to mind?"

He ran a hand through his hair and looked her up to down before resting his gaze on her face again.

"I don't know what to do with you. I am torn between telling you to get out and pulling you closer."

"You think about touching me then," she said with wide eyes.

"Yes."

"You can't touch me."

"You don't want me to?"

"You don't want me to," Abike responded.

He sighed and leaned back again. "You don't want me to touch you because I don't let you touch me."

She stayed mute, not wanting to anger him. This was like the longest they had gone with him being easy enough to have a conversation with.

"It's only fair. Whenever you touch me, I reflexively want to touch you too," she said in a moment of honesty.

For one long moment, he didn't say anything in response. Then he spoke and Abike felt her heart drop to her feet. "That means I won't touch you anymore." He picked up his book.

She remained quiet for a while as he read. Then when she realized he wasn't going to say anything else, she cleared her throat.

"Maybe I should return this tray." She bent to pick up the tray and put it on her lap.

"Do that." Came his stilted reply from behind the book. She stuck out her tongue at him. He was so complicated, flitting between personalities like a confused butterfly.

Abike left the room. She wanted to ask him if she could come back, but she already knew that bubble had burst. She would rather curl up in her bed and go over the beautiful moment they had than go back there and let him ruin it. It would be a different story when she saw him again tomorrow.