Her movements are careful, intimate in a way that hurts worse than rejection.
She sits on the edge of the bed. For a moment, I think she’s crying too.
“I think,” she says softly, voice barely there, “I’ll always love you.”
I try to answer. I try to tell her I love her, too. That I always have. That I always will.
My mouth won’t cooperate. The room spins. Her face blurs.
The last thing I feel is her hand brushing my hair back before everything fades.
I wake to warmth.
Not just warmth. Weight. Pressure. The soft, unmistakable curve of a body pressed along my thigh, her knee hooked over me like she belongs there.
For half a second, I think I’m still drunk, still lost in whatever dream my brain decided to torture me with.
Then I breathe in.
Norah.
Her scent is everywhere. Clean sleep and soft heat, and that underlying ripe note that makes my chest tighten.
She’s sprawled half over me, one thigh thrown across mine, her cheek pressed against my chest. Her curls spill over my shoulder, brushing my jaw.
I don’t move at first. I’m afraid that if I do, she’ll disappear.
Slowly, I lift my hand and thread my fingers into her hair. I trace one curl, letting it wrap around my finger. My chest aches with it.
She shifts slightly, her lips parting as she exhales. Her mouth brushes my skin.
God.
I drag my knuckles down her cheek, taking in the shape of her face like I might lose it again. Her lashes are long. Her nose still tilts just a little. Her mouth is still the prettiest thing I have ever seen.
She stirs again, tongue flicking out in her sleep.
And then she licks my finger. It’s a slow and curious caress.
A quiet laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. My thumb strokes her lower lip, feeling the warmth there. She hums softly, nuzzling into my hand like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Her eyes blink open.
The second awareness hits her, she freezes.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, voice wrecked. “Dorian.” She scrambles back like she has been burned, hands flying to her mouth, cheeks blazing. “I’m so sorry. I was half asleep. I didn’t mean to?—”
I catch her wrist gently. “Do you remember,” I ask, voice low and rough, “when we used to wake up like this?”
She stills. Her eyes soften, but there’s something guarded there, too. “You were rarely there when I woke up.”
The words land harder than a slap.
Guilt crashes through me, sharp and immediate. I release her wrist and drag a hand through my hair. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”
She watches me, searching my face like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth believing today.
I reach out again, slower this time, tracing the curve of her neck. She shivers under the touch. She’s wearing an oversized cotton T-shirt, and it’s slipping off one shoulder.
