Nothing. Just another soft breath. Another tiny snuffle that I swear to God I’m going to tease him about when he’s conscious. I settle again. My hand hovers over his hair—because I’m apparently trying to ruin my entire life tonight—but then his lashes flutter. He shifts, brows pinching, like he’s waking up into a nightmare.
“No,” I whisper, before I can stop myself. “Stay here. It’s okay.”
He hears that. I can tell by the way his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out like a slow leak. He’s not awake, not fully asleep, he’s just… here, with me.
The fire pops. He sighs. And before I can overthink it, I slide my fingers carefully through his hair. He melts. Actually melts. Like his whole spine uncoils on the exhale. I swear I stop breathing. “You’re trouble,” I murmur, barely audible. “You know that?” I’m already in too deep to pretend otherwise.
His lips curve, the faintest ghost of a smile, as if he heard that too and tucked it somewhere safe. I stroke his hair again, slower. His breathing evens out, syncing with the rhythm of my movements. I’m not sure when my shoulders drop or when my own chest loosens, but something in me settles too. Something stubborn and sharp and terrified.
Minutes pass. Or an hour. Time feels weird around him. Eventually, he stirs for real, blinking up at me. He can skate circles around grown men but can’t seem to understand how he ended up with his head in my lap.
“Hey.” I keep my voice low and soft.
His brows pinch. “Did I… fall asleep?”
“Like a fucking Disney princess.” I pause giving him a warm smile. “Minus the woodland creatures.”
He snorts, embarrassed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry. I didn’t—” He clears his throat, his voice thick with sleep and heavy with emotion. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Artemis.” I tug gently at the blanket. “You were exhausted. It’s fine. It’s what happens when you let the world pull you in all directions.”
He doesn’t argue. That alone tells me he’s still halfway in that dream-state softness. Vulnerable and a little unguarded, the kind of version of him that makes me want to build a goddamn fortress around him.
He glances at the fire. At the pillow I shoved under his head. At me. “You stayed?” His voice goes rasp-soft.
“Obviously. Though I can see why you’re asking since I’m the main character in your dreams these days, aren’t I?” I waggle my brows at him.
He swallows. Hard. His eyes linger on my hand still resting on the pillow beside his head. Then they shift to my face, like he’s trying to memorize something.
For a second, the air between us is electric in the quietest, most dangerous way. Then he whispers, “Thank you.” And that’s it. I’m a lost cause. Game over. Each crack he shows me in his armor makes me fall just a little bit more for this hard-shelled enforcer.
I look away first. Because if I don’t, I’m going to kiss him, and tonight is not the night for that kind of reckless decision. I don’t want him feeling like all we are, is something physical. I want him to see the potential, themore.
“Come on.” I clear my throat. “Sit up. You need water.”
He sits up slowly, like gravity’s pulling on him more heavily than usual. The blanket slips off his shoulders, and he looks at me again—really looks. And something in his eyes tells me he might feel it too.
He takes the glass from my hand, fingers brushing mine, and the contact is embarrassingly small for how it lights my whole damn nervous system on fire. He sips, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing in a way I absolutely should not be staring at. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What time is it?”
“Late,” I say. “Or early. Depends how dramatic you’re feeling.”
His lips twitch like he wants to smile but is too tired to commit. “Why’d you stay down here?” His voice is a low rumble.
I shrug. “You’re the runner in this… relationship? It’s easier to chase you when you stay still.”
Something flickers in his eyes, something soft and dangerous. “Maybe I’m tired of running,” he admits quietly.
Well. There goes the last of my composure.
He sets the glass aside and rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, like there’s something tight under his ribs, and he doesn’t know how to loosen it. I watch his palm move, slow circles over his chest, and suddenly every cell in my body is screaming to put my hand there instead.
“Xavier.” His voice wavers. “I didn’t mean to—to make this weird.”
“It’s not weird,” I say, maybe a little too eagerly. “You fell asleep. I didn’t molest you.”
“Good start.” He deadpans.
“You snore.”
