Page 41 of Holiday Interference
The bedroom is dim, the curtains pulled tight against the snow-muted world outside. I climb into bed without turning on a light, muscles tight, breath shallow.
The mattress dips a moment later, and I nearly jump at the reminder that he’s not just a dream.
He’s real. He’s here.
He stays on his side, same as last night.
Only this time, the air between us crackles with what we’re not saying.
I lie on my back, staring up into nothing, the ceiling blurring. My skin still buzzes from his kiss; my mouth still tingles from how hard it was.
How much he gave in that second.
I should feel awkward. Embarrassed.
But I don’t.
I feel warm. And wired. And full of things I don’t have names for.
I shift onto my side, facing away from him.
The heat of his body seeps through the covers, close enough to feel but not quite touching.
Every nerve strains toward him.
My fingers curl in the sheets like they want to reach behind me.
But I don’t.
Neither of us speaks.
He doesn’t offer a goodnight.
I don’t ask for one.
We just breathe in the same space. Still pretending. Still pretending it’s fine.
But the mattress remembers. The sheets remember.
And so do I.
The feel of his hands on my hips.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing holding him together.
The way I didn’t want him to stop.
I blink into the dark, throat tight.
He’s not touching me, not even close. But I feel less alone than I have in a long time.
He doesn’t say a word.
But I’ve never felt more seen.
My legs shift under the covers. Just a little.
I tell myself it’s to get comfortable, but really—it’s to move closer. A few inches.
