I’ve never woken up like this before. Tangled in a maybe-lover’s embrace. Not with anyone who cared enough to hold on even when nothing was happening.
My heart stutters.
We didn’t have sex. I was drunk, Phoenix was drunk, and part of me expected and feared that he’d push for it anyway. That he’d take what he wanted because that’s who I thought he was. Reckless. Unstoppable. Always crossing the line because rules don’t apply to him. And maybe I would have given it to him if he had said the right thing.
But he didn’t.
We went back to his room when the last people left the party. We made out, messy and desperate, and then he pulled me into his bed and passed out with me still in his arms. No pressure. No pushing. Just this.
And now, lying here, feeling the steady weight of him curled around me, I can’t ignore the way my chest aches with something I can’t quite name.
I’ve never been with a man. I had been too afraid my father would find out, even when Silas dragged us out of that hellhole. I made out with a few guys in clubs. Slept with a girl in high school to find out that wasnotwhat I was into. I’ve never had a partner. Especially not in bed, half-naked, tangled up in something that feels dangerously close to safe.
Safe. With Phoenix. The thought almost makes me laugh. He’s chaos, a storm that doesn’t end, a wildfire I should know better than to stand too close to. But right now, in the quiet morning, with his arm tight around me, he feels like the safest thing I’ve ever known.
I let out a shaky breath and close my eyes again, just for a moment, letting myself sink into it. His body is hot, his chest rising and falling against my back, and I could almost convincemyself this was normal. Like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like this is routine.
My stomach knots.
Because it’s not routine, it’s not normal. This is the first time, and it already feels like too much. Like I’ll get addicted if I let myself stay.
Phoenix shifts behind me, a low sound escaping his throat. His grip tightens reflexively, his face pressing against the back of my neck. I freeze, wondering if he’s awake, but his breathing stays even. Still asleep. Still holding me like I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I don’t know what to do with that.
Every other time I’ve let someone close, it’s felt conditional. Like I had to give something up to get their attention. But Phoenix? He just… took care of me. In his own chaotic way.
Even last week, in the locker room, when he was rough, when he pushed me further than I thought I could go, afterward, he was gentle. Careful. Making sure I was okay. It didn’t make sense then. It doesn’t make sense now. Why would someone like him bother with aftercare? Why would someone like him bother holding me all night?
I’m so used to people leaving when they’ve had their fill.
Phoenix clings like he’s afraid of being left. The thought cuts through me, sharp and unexpected.
I stare at his hand on my stomach, at the long fingers curled against me, veins running sharp beneath tan skin. Strong hands. Hands that can bruise, break, push. But right now, they’re just holding and keeping me close. I swallow hard, my throat dry.
This is dangerous.
I’m supposed to be cautious. I’m supposed to be the one who keeps distance, who doesn’t get caught up in things that can ruin me. Phoenix is reckless, uncontrollable, a walking disaster. Andyet I’m lying here in his arms, thinking about how I don’t want him to let go.
The bed shifts suddenly. Phoenix groans low in his chest, stretching against me before pulling back slightly. His arm slips from my waist, dragging across my stomach, leaving a ghost of warmth behind.
I hold still, pretending to sleep, not ready to face him.
But then I feel soft kisses against my hair. His voice comes, rough with sleep, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Morning, baby.”
My pulse jumps. What did he just call me? I force myself to turn, meeting his eyes. His hair is a mess, sticking up in wild tufts, his face creased from the pillow. Somehow, it makes him look younger. Less like the reckless captain everyone sees and more like a boy who forgot to build his walls before the sun came up.
“Morning,” I say back, my voice hoarse.
He watches me for a long moment, eyes flicking down to my mouth, then back up. A grin tugs at his lips, slow and lazy. “You didn’t sneak out. I was half expecting you to.”
I snort softly, looking away. “I don’t sneak.”
“Better not,” he murmurs, sitting up. His bare torso stretches in the low light, muscles shifting, and I look away quickly, heat crawling up my neck.
He rakes a hand through his hair and swings his legs off the bed. “I’m gonna shower. You want to get coffee?”
The question is casual, but it lands heavy in my chest. Coffee. Like this is normal. Like I stayed over because I wanted to, not because I was too drunk to drive.
