Page 11 of Star Rucked Lovers

A warm, steady pressure against her side brought everything rushing back. The passionate make-out session, her in George’s lap, kissing him until she could barely breathe. George taking her hands, slowing the pace gently when she, perhaps, would have rushed things. And then, apparently, they’d fallen asleep right there together.

She turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing against something solid. George. He was still here, stretched out beside her, his long legs nearly hanging off the end of the couch. His head rested against the cushion, tilted towards her, his features softened in sleep. Even with his mouth slightly open, he looked absurdly handsome, ruggedly so, like the kind of man who belonged on the cover of some wilderness survival magazine.

“Morning,” George mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep, his accent thicker than usual. One of his eyes cracked open, the vibrant blue startling even in his half-conscious state. A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he fully registered her face. “Reckon I’m crushing you yet?”

“Not yet,” Myst replied, a nervous laugh bubbling up before she could stop it. Her cheeks flamed. She sat up a bit straighter, trying to ignore how her heart thumped like a drum. “Although my left leg’s gone completely numb, so maybe don’t move too fast.”

“Right.” He chuckled, low and gravelly, and shifted his arm away, leaving a surprising chill in its absence. He pushed himself upright, his broad shoulders taking up what felt like half the room, his hair sticking up in an unruly mess. It was entirely unfair how good he looked first thing in the morning.

“How’d we manage this?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I’d be out the door by midnight.”

“Guess we’re not as young and resilient as we used to be,” she teased, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was light, but the truth lingered between them like a ghost. They’d both chosen this.

“Mm,” he hummed, glancing sideways at her. His gaze lingered for just a beat too long, his expression unreadable. Then, as though compelled by some unseen force, he reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his rough fingers barely skimming her cheek.

Myst froze, her breath catching. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just them, the hum of the city outside muffled by the quiet intimacy of the room. George’s hand dropped, and he cleared his throat, suddenly looking sheepish.

“Sorry,” he said, his ears tinged pink. “You had...uh...a bit of hair in your eye.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. She wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but her skin burned where he’d touched her.

They sat there for a moment longer, neither quite meeting the other’s eyes, until Myst couldn’t help herself. A small giggle escaped her lips, breaking the tension. George raised a brow, his own grin slowly forming.

“Something funny?”

“Just...” She gestured between them, her laughter growing. “This. Us. Falling asleep like teenagers watching a movie or something. It’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, huh?” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I dunno. Feels kinda nice, actually.”

“Nice?” she echoed, her laughter fading into something softer. She glanced at him, and in his eyes, she saw something unspoken that sent her stomach flipping.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Nice.”

Their gazes lingered, and for a fleeting second, she thought he might lean in and kiss her again. But then George shifted, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic yawn that broke the spell.

“Any chance of a coffee?” He flashed her one of those devastatingly charming smiles. And just like that, the awkwardness melted into something easy and familiar, a rhythm they seemed to have found without even realizing it.

Myst’s heart swelled. Whatever this was, she wasn’t ready for it to end. Not yet.

Myst balanced her mug of tea in one hand and leaned against the kitchenette counter, watching as George, still gloriously rumpled from sleep, stood by the window, squinting at the London sky like it had personally wronged him.

“Does it ever not look like rain here?” he asked, his voice gravelly with the remnants of morning.

“Welcome to England,” Myst teased, taking a sip of her tea. “Grey skies and tea are kind of their thing, I’ve found.”

“Tea,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ll stick with this.” He raised his own mug, black coffee steaming inside.

They’d been like this for the past few minutes. Quiet, warm, lingering in the bubble they’d somehow created. Myst wasn’t sure how long they could keep it up before reality intruded, but she wasn’t in a rush to find out.

“Jessie’s going to kill me,” she murmured after a pause, mostly to herself. “I was supposed to send her my schedule last night, and I…” She trailed off, glancing toward George, who raised an eyebrow.

“Fell asleep on your quality sofa with some world-class company? Yeah, tragic excuse,” he said, smirking.

“World-class, huh?” she shot back, narrowing her eyes. “Getting ahead of yourself.”

“Just calling it like I see it.”

She rolled her eyes but bit back a smile. Of course, that was when Jessie burst through the door, clipboard in hand, looking every inch the harried assistant.

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