Something too soft to trust shifts in his expression.
“Go to sleep, Whitmore,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge.
I roll onto my side dramatically and glare at the wall. “You’re the worst.”
“I’ve been called worse by better,” he says, already walking back toward the other side of the bed.
Waffles climbs up and settles next to me with the resigned huff of a dog who has witnessed too much and slept through half of it.
The lights click off.
Rowan lies down.
We don’t speak again.
But I don’t fall asleep for a long time.
Because the bed is warm.
And his presence fills the room.
* * *
I wake up to heat. Heat that feels alive. It’s pressed against my back, sliding under my arm, wrapping around my leg. For a second, I’m too sleepy to understand why my heart is already racing.
Then I realize. The heat is Rowan.
He’s behind me, his body curved perfectly around mine. His arm is firm across my waist, holding me close but not tight, just enough that I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. His skin is bare, warm, and smooth, and his breath grazes the back of my neck every time he exhales.
My whole body goes still.
I try to think, but all I can do is feel. The solid weight of his arm. The slow rhythm of his breathing. The quiet strength of his body pressed against mine. It’s overwhelming in a way that isn’t panic. It’s something else. Something that makes my pulse stumble and my stomach twist, because it feels safe and dangerous at the same time.
The scent of him lingers in the air—clean, faintly sharp, familiar. My head tells me to pull away, but the rest of me wants to lean back until every inch of space between us disappears.
Waffles snorts at the foot of the bed, and the sound jolts me back to reality. I should move. I need to move. I can’t lie here pretending this means nothing when every part of me knows exactly what it means.
Still, I don’t move right away. I let myself have a few seconds to breathe in the warmth, to feel the way his hand rests against my stomach, to remember what it used to be like before everything between us fell apart. Back when mornings like this were normal. Back when he was mine, and I didn’t have to pretend it didn’t matter.
My chest tightens. It’s too much.
I start to shift, slowly easing out of his hold, but his fingers flex against my skin in his sleep, a soft reflex that pulls me right back where I started. His breath catches, low and rough, and then he murmurs something quiet against my hair, too soft to make out.
The sound wrecks me a little.
I close my eyes, holding still until he settles again. Then I take a slow, careful breath and slide free, my heart hammering so hard it feels like he might hear it. My feet hit the floor, soft against the carpet, and I force myself not to look back.
But I do.
He’s still asleep, one arm stretched where I was a moment ago, his expression unguarded and peaceful. Without the sharpness he wears, he looks heartbreakingly human.
And I shouldn’t love that. I shouldn’t feel this ache in my chest or this pull under my ribs. But I do.
I grab my toiletry bag and head for the bathroom, whispering to myself as I go, “Not a big deal. Just... a slip. Just a mistake.”
The words feel empty, and I don’t believe a single one.
Inside the bathroom, I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palms flat against the wood until my heart slows. It doesn’t stop the warmth still clinging to my skin or the truth I don’t want to name.
