My house is silent, heavy in the early hours before dawn. Fog covers the early morning light, blanketing the trees in sheer mist.
I rake my fingers down my mustache, the coarse stubble catching against my fingertips, and push to stand. My body aches in protest, scars itching like they always do when I move first thing in the morning.
Mustering under my breath, I glance toward the kitchen; coffee can wait.
I need to use the bathroom more, but the only one is in my bedroom.
Wheresheis.
My chest caves in, nerves coiling tightly as I walk down the hallway, my bare feet making the wood groan with eachstep. The door is slightly open, silver-gray light from the first signs of morning seeping through those wide windows, casting a soft, muted glow around the edges of the room.
I quickly look around the room until my eyes lock onto Layla’s relaxed body, tousled between the sheets.
She’s tangled between the quilt and a thin gray sheet. Diagonal across the mattress, her leg is hooked in the quilt, the other hanging off the side. Her arm rests on her stomach, her hand hanging limply, fingers curled between the sheets.
Her mouth is slightly open, lips parted in a relaxed, unselfconscious way. A faint little snore escapes, barely audible, and the sound stirs something loose in my chest.
Her hair, wild from sleep, a golden, messy halo, spills across my pillow, catching faint streaks of dawn that make the strands glow.
She looks so at ease pressed into my pillow, like she’s always belonged here.
I grip the doorframe harder than I should, my scars itching, pulling, burning like they want to remind me of what I am.
But for a moment, I let myself forget.
I let myself admire her.
Her chest rises and falls steadily, her lips twitching with some dream I’ll never understand. She’s wild, even while asleep; sprawled out, ungraceful, ridiculous.
And somehow the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
My throat tightens. A faint, reluctant smile tugs across my lips, a genuine one.
I shouldn’t linger, I shouldn’t let my mind wander down the dangerous path it wants to.
I imagine this as something ordinary; I fantasize about waking up with her here, in my space. In my life.
She’s engaged, Reed. You’re being considerate and letting her stay here so she doesn’t feel alone.
Fuck.
Shoving my internal thoughts aside, I push myself forward, careful as I slip past my bed, each step calculated so the floor doesn’t creak.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, but the image stays burned in my mind: Layla sprawled in my sheets, soft and unguarded, like she belongs nowhere else.
And God help me, I want to see it again tomorrow.
Flushing the toilet, hoping it doesn’t wake her, I quickly wash my hands, turn off the light, and head back out to make my escape back to the living room. The bathroom door clicks softly behind me as I step back into the bedroom.
I expect her to still be out cold, sprawled, and snoring like she was when I walked in.
But she isn’t.
Shit.
She shifts, groaning as she rolls onto her side, her hair sticking up in every direction. Her eyes blink open, hazy but alert in that way only morning people can manage. A yawn cracks across her face before she props herself up on one elbow.
“Busted,” she rasps, voice still thick with sleep. “Were you just watching me drool on your pillow?”
