Page 13 of Holiday Interference
The sound goes straight through me. I clench the blanket tighter around my shoulders, my legs tangled and hot under the covers.
My skin prickles with awareness—not from the cold, but from knowing he’s out there, pretending like he’s comfortable when I know damn well he’s not.
I roll to my side, spine tight, and try to ignore the pressure blooming low in my belly.
Not lust. Not exactly.
Something more uncomfortable. More complicated. Something I don’t know how to name.
Another creak.
Then silence.
Then a voice, low and rough like gravel dragged across memory foam.
“I’m fine.”
It’s like he knows I want to ask him if he’s okay.
Or maybe he knows I’m awake, wrapped in guilt and a blanket and trying not to feel too much in a stranger’s bed that suddenly doesn’t feel so strange.
I sit up slowly, the mattress dipping beneath me, blanket sliding down to my hips. My skin cools instantly, a sharp contrast to the heat in my chest.
I move on instinct, bare feet brushing the wood floor, one hand finding the doorknob before I can talk myself out of it.
The second I crack the door open, I see him.
Sprawled across the couch, limbs too long for the frame, one arm flung over his head like he’s surrendering to the inevitability of bad decisions.
The blanket only makes it to his knees. His feet hang off the edge, socked toes flexing like they’re trying to anchor him to a space that won’t quite hold him.
He shifts again, jaw clenched, and mutters something too low to catch.
My chest twists. That stupid kind of tight that comes when you feel something you’re not ready to admit.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper, just to ground myself.
I shouldn’t care this much.
He shouldn’t look so good in such an awkward position. But he does.
I huff out a low breath. I barely know the man.
This was supposed to be a pit stop—not a slow-burn unraveling.
But there’s something about the way his shoulders are hunched, the way he’s clearly trying to shrink himself down to fit this space, that makes the back of my throat sting.
I press my forehead to the doorframe and close my eyes.
The wood is cool against my skin. Grounding. Necessary.
I want to say something.
Offer to switch.
Or admit this is ridiculous and that we should both stop pretending we’re not adults capable of sharing a bed without catching fire.
But I don’t.
