Page 17 of Holiday Interference
I told myself this was no big deal. A favor. A place to stay. Keep it simple.
But nothing about the way she crawled under these covers felt simple.
And nothing about the way I keep wanting to turn toward her feels safe.
I breathe out slow, willing my body to calm the hell down.
But everything’s wound so fucking tight.
My jaw aches from clenching. My legs are too long for the bed when I stay this stiff. My shoulder’s already starting to cramp from lying on it wrong.
But I don’t move. Don’t roll over. Don’t risk making this weird.
Because right now—here in the dark, with her only inches away—it feels…okay.
Better than okay.
It feels like something I don’t have a name for.
I’ve shared beds before. Hookups, hotel rooms, team travel, whatever.
But this—her, quiet beside me, curled into the pillows in my damn T-shirt—this isn’t that.
She doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t press or perform.
And maybe that’s what’s fucking me up most.
I let my eyes flick toward her, just for a second. She’s facing away, one hand tucked under her cheek, hair spilling over the pillow. Peaceful. Almost.
Except for that breath.
Too shallow.
Too careful.
She’s not asleep.
I don’t say anything. Don’t want to spook whatever this moment is.
But I turn just a little. Not enough to reach her. Just enough to be…closer.
Her presence fills the room. Quiet and steady. Like a song I haven’t heard in years but still know all the words to.
And I can’t help the thought that lands too heavy in my chest:
She should feel like a guest.
But she doesn’t.
“You awake?”
Her voice is soft. Not tentative, not embarrassed—just quiet.
I blink into the dark and when I can make out the curve of her silhouette, I see the faint shine of her eyes as she stares up at the ceiling like I was.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low and rough with sleep. Or something like it.
She exhales, a slow rush of air, and shifts slightly. The mattress dips again, and I feel it all the way in my gut.
