Page 69 of The Final Faceoff
Today, I’m not just under the covers—I’m completely wrapped up in them. Tucked in, snug, like someone made sure I stayed warm all night. Which is already alarming, but then I feel it.
Things that are very different from my usual morning: an arm draped over my waist, a slow, even breath near my temple, a chest—broad, warm, and very male—beneath my cheek.
My fingers twitch. I shift the tiniest bit, and—oh, God. Firm muscle. Hard lines. An entire wall of body that definitely does not belong to me.
Panic spikes through me.
Oh, no.
No. No.
What did I do?
Did I drink too much tequila? Lose all sense of judgment? Wake up in some alternate reality where I make terrible life choices—again?
No. No, that doesn’t make sense.
Greece flashes in my mind, but that’s not it either. That guy didn’t hold me like this. Didn’t make me feel this . . .
Okay, Hailey. No time like the present. Take stock. Assess. Gather intel.
My lashes flutter open, my heart already picking up speed, because I know exactly where I am. Exactly who I’m wrapped around.
Leif.
Not just next to him. On him. Practically welded to his chest. My leg is slung over his like I’ve claimed him in my sleep, one of my hands gripping the elastic of his gray sweats—even unconscious, I refused to let go.
Oh my God. What did I do?
A frantic checklist runs through my head. Clothes? On. Dignity? Questionable. Self-respect? Hanging by a very thin thread.
If I stay still, maybe—just maybe—he won’t notice that I’ve latched onto him like an emotionally unstable koala.
A deep chuckle ruins that plan. “Morning, Sunshine.” A lazy warmth lingers in his voice, teasing, amused, entirely too smug for someone whose best friend is literally draped over him.
Heat rushes up my neck, straight into my face. My body refuses to move, like it already knows something my brain refuses to admit.
I don’t just like being here. I want to be here. A slow shift of his arm. A pause. Then . . . he kisses me. Not on my lips. The top of my head. Soft. Thoughtless. Like it’s something he does all the time, something that shouldn’t send my entire system spiraling.
Then another. This time against the tip of my nose.
I stop breathing.
He’s so close, his breath skimming over my skin, warmth lingering where there should be space. It’s barely a kiss, barely a touch, but it sinks into me like it belongs there. My heart stumbles, then drops into free fall, pulled by something I don’t want to name.
I could tilt my chin, close the gap, take what’s right there—what I know he’d give me. But I don’t.
Because this?
This is deliberate. Measured. A quiet promise pressed into my skin, as if he’s been waiting for this moment longer than I can imagine.
“You’re awake,” I manage, my voice raw from sleep, my brain still clawing its way through the fog.
Then it all slams back in. The crying. The breaking. The way he caught me before I could fall too hard. But then I remember that before the wreckage—before the ugly, gut-wrenching sobs—there was something else.
A kiss.
Leif kissed me.
