The color deepens toward the ends, fading from pale honey into warmer tones, with threads of auburn woven through. It’s not perfect; a few pieces curl in different directions, and one strand rests against her cheek, caught on the corner of her mouth.
Her ivory skin looks soft, warm, and flushed even while she sleeps. Her cheeks have a natural, lingering pink.
A faint dusting of freckles appears near her nose, freckles I hadn’t noticed before.
Her nose is small and gently upturned, the kind that wrinkles when she laughs or gets stubborn, which seems to be most of the time.
There are faint smile lines at the corners of her mouth, just barely visible, subtle reminders of every laugh she’s ever forced into the world, even when it hurt.
Her dark, long lashes fan out across her cheeks, curling upward, and each time she exhales, they flutter just the tiniest bit.
And her lips, fuck, her lips.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring before I realize I am.
They’re slightly parted, with a soft pink color that looks alive even in the pale light. Her lips are full, nearly shaped like a heart when parted.
She’s beautiful.
My gaze drifts down to her hand resting on the blanket, her fingers loosely curled near her chest. That’s when I notice that fucking ring.
Her engagement ring sparkles faintly in the TV light, glimmering.
It doesn’t belong on her, not when she’s here in my home, her chest rising and falling in that gentle rhythm that makes the whole damn world feel quieter.
The sight of that ring hits me harder than I expected.
It’s an anchor, pulling me back to reality. A reminder that this isn’t mine to want.
Thatsheisn’t mine to want.
But God, I want her anyway.
I want to hear her laughter echo through these walls every day.
I want to understand the thoughts behind those bright, reckless eyes. I want to learn the cadence of her voice when she’s not performing for anyone. I want to hold onto this—this fragile, impossible peace between us—because it’s the first time my house hasn’t felt like a tomb.
And yet, I can’t have it.
I can’t haveher.
She’s here, asleep on my couch, wrapped in my blanket, and I’m sitting two feet away, quietly falling apart because she’s the first person in years to make me feel alive again.
My gaze again follows her face, committing every detail to memory. I notice the curve of her jaw, the soft hollow under her cheekbone, the delicate shadow cast by her lashes, and the gentle rise at the corner of her lips.
I run my fingers through my mustache, attempting to look away, but it’s futile.
Every fiber of my being is drawn to her.
I lean back against the couch, restraining my hands, fighting the urge to reach out and brush her hair aside. The restraint weighs more than anything I have ever lifted.
She quietly sighs in her sleep, her lips slightly parting, and her brows twitching as if reacting to something only she perceives.
I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. I shouldn’t be thinking about what it would feel like to touch her, to see those eyes open and find me there, tokissher.
Something about her feels like sunlight breaking through every wall I’ve built to keep the world out.
I’ve been telling myself it’s wrong, that it’s nothing. That she’s just a friend. A guest. A woman with a ring on her finger and a life that doesn’t intersect with mine beyond this fleeting, stolen moment.
