Absolutely fine.
* * *
I’m not asleep.
I’m just horizontal. Emotionally flatlined.
The floor is surprisingly comfortable, if you’re too proud to admit defeat. Waffles is curled against my stomach, breathing slow and steady, his one good eye closed in peace. I nestle my fingers into the soft fur behind his ears.
I tell myself I’m fine.
That I can totally sleep on the floor.
That this itchy throw blanket and my poorly disguised anxiety are enough to carry me through the night.
But my body says otherwise. My hip aches. My neck is already plotting its revenge. And even though I have two pillows and the moral high ground, my limbs are cold, and my spine is sending me hate mail.
But I hold the line.
I stay still.
I stay stubborn.
Until—
I hear him huff.
Then, low and exasperated: “For fuck’s sake.”
A shadow falls over me.
Then hands. Large, warm, and very much not mine.
“Hey—” I start to protest, but I’m already being lifted. Arms under my knees. One arm around my back. My cheek lands against something infuriatingly firm.
“This isn’t happening,” I say as his arms tighten around me. “You’re not carrying me to bed.”
“I’m doing exactly that.”
“You’re going to regret this.”
“Probably. But I’ll be able to sleep.”
“This is so wildly inappropriate.”
“So is sleeping on the floor.”
His grip is strong and annoyingly competent.
Waffles, still half-asleep on the rug, lets out the softest offended huff as I’m carried away. “I was snuggling him,” I whisper-shout as Rowan sets me down on the bed.
“He’ll recover.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
He tugs the comforter over me. Then pauses. Just for a second. Eyes flicking over my face.
