Page 29 of The Garnet Daughter
“You’re ok doing this?” I ask over my shoulder.
He nods as if he's being sworn into a sacred duty.
I climb onto his bed, and the sheets still radiate the warmth from his body where he previously lay beneath the blanket. “Wecould wait till morning and go to Ruth’s like we planned.” I give him one last chance to get out of this.
“No, Calliape. This is . . . fine,” he says on an exhale, which has me second-guessing even more.
Once I get settled, lying on my back, he approaches carefully.
“I think I was sleepwalking too. I woke up both times on my feet.”
The bed creaks as he climbs in next to me, his movements a little awkward and unsure.
“Sorry.” His apology is breathy as his knee brushes against my leg.
The bed sinks down as he gets comfortable, and the narrow mattress tilts me toward him, his gravity sucking me closer and making me adjust so I am not completely pressed against his side.
When I glance over at him, he is staring up at the ceiling, body stiff and controlled, and I can’t help but snort a laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” he asks with a grin, breaking the awkward tension.
“You look scared.”
“Me? No.” He adjusts his big shoulders into the downy mattress like he is willing himself to relax and prove me wrong.
“I’m sorry to ask you to do this.”
He is silent for a moment. Whatever he is looking at on the ceiling must be very interesting because he refuses to look at me.
“Let’s just hope you sleep fold again,” he says on another breath.
His arm slides closer to me, and at first I think he is moving the blankets, but then his palm finds my hand and his fingers interlace themselves around mine.
I can’t contain the surge of affection that comes out of me. All I can do is squeeze his fist back, hoping he takes it as a thank you for the wordless reassurance.
But I assure myself it is only so we might fold together. Brushing against each other’s shoulders is not enough intent to take him with me, especially in my sleep and such a far distance. He is holding my hand because we have to focus on getting home. The sensation of his palm, so big and warm in mine, is irrelevant, as is how his thumb runs across the top of my hand when I let out an exhale, a reflex, tendons twitching.
“Good night, August,” I whisper, deciding I need to turn off my wandering brain.
He turns toward me as if he did not hear me at first, but then he smiles just enough for his dimple to make another untimely appearance. “Good night, Callia.”
It doesn’t take long for sleep to grip me again, this time deeper than I have fallen in months. The tension I constantly hold in my shoulders melts away. I sleep so soundly, all dreams and nightmares can’t reach me, blocked by a ward of peace and cradled in the lumpy down mattress.
And when I finally stir from the bliss of slumber, I can hear birds chirping outside and see the strange conjunction light trickling in from the window shutters. I choose to ignore it, too warm and enveloped in blankets for any worry that awaits me when I fully wake.
Suddenly, I realize I am facing August’s chest, his arms are around me in a lazy hug, and we are pressed against each other closer than we ever have been.
I must have moved in my sleep and holding my hand was no longer an option. I try to justify but it doesn’t stop the flush of heat I feel in my face.
“I was hoping it would work,” I whisper. I’m disappointed, but like the first time I sleep folded, it stopped once I woke up and did not occur again the same night.
August doesn’t respond. He must be annoyed that staying up all night was for nothing.
But then I hear a subtle snore as he breathes, his chest slow and expanding in such calm.
The bastard is sleeping.
“August!” I push his heavy arm off me and sit up.
