“Just sleeping.”
“Just sleeping.”
“On the couch.”
“Sure.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For earlier. With the restaurant. For coming to check on us. For… this.” She gestures vaguely at the space, at us, at whatever this is.
Something in my chest shifts. Loosens. Like a knot coming undone, like breathing after holding your breath too long.
“Get some sleep, Poppy.”
“You too.”
I grab blankets from the hall closet and pillows that actually match, making the couch as comfortable as possible by tucking everything around her. She curls up, dress and all, looking small, exhausted, and perfect.
I head upstairs to shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders. After changing into sweats and a T-shirt, I try not to think about her downstairs on my couch.
I fail spectacularly.
When I come back down to check, she’s asleep, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek like a child. Muffin has migrated from her spot and is pressed against Poppy’s stomach, protective.
They look… right. Like they belong here. Like this is how it should be.
That feeling in my chest intensifies. Or maybe it gets better. It’s hard to tell.
I grab a book from the shelf and settle into the chair across from them, just for a minute, to make sure they’re okay.
I wake up four hours later, the book resting on my chest and my neck cramped. Early morning light filters through the windows, gray and soft.
Poppy’s still asleep, but she’s shifted. The blanket is half off, and her dress has ridden up slightly, exposing more of those legs.
Muffin is awake, watching me with judgmental eyes from her spot against Poppy’s stomach.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, my voice rough with sleep.
She huffs and settles back down, but keeps one eye on me.
I stand slowly, my joints protesting, and fix Poppy’s blanket, being careful not to wake her. My hand brushes her shoulder, and she sighs, turning into the touch, seeking warmth.
That thing in my chest?
Yeah. I’m fucked.
Completely, thoroughly fucked.
And tomorrow’s the wedding.
The day after that, she leaves.
I look down at her sleeping on my couch, at Muffin guarding her like a tiny, neurotic sentinel, and I know with absolute certainty that I’m going to do something stupid.
The only question is whether it’ll be letting her go or asking her to stay.
