Page 11 of Christmas with the Firefighter
But apparently, I do all of those things when it comes to Miranda.
She shifts in her sleep, leg sliding between mine, and the casual intimacy of it hits me hard. This is what I've been avoiding for years.
I need to get control of this, need to put some distance between what happened last night and what happens this morning. Need to protect both of us from the inevitable disappointment when she realizes this was just a moment, just Christmas magic that doesn't survive daylight.
I should go.
But even as I think it, my arm tightens around her, and I know I'm not going anywhere. Notyet.
She stirs again, this time with the purposeful movement of someone surfacing from sleep. Her fingers flex against my chest, and I feel the moment she becomes aware of where she is, who she's with. Her breathing changes, becomes more conscious, and then she's lifting her head to look at me.
"Hi," she says softly, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I keep my voice neutral, friendly but not intimate, like we're acquaintances who happened to end up in the same bed instead of two people who spent the night learning each other's bodies.
There's a moment where we just look at each other, and I can see her cataloging the same details I've been memorizing—the way my hair is sticking up, the shadow of beard I didn't shave yesterday, the fact that we're both naked and tangled together.
"Did you sleep okay?" she asks, and there's something careful in her voice now, like she's testing the temperature of the water.
"Yeah. You?" I sit up, putting some physical distance between us, and immediately miss the warmth of her skin against mine.
"Good. Really good." She sits up as well, pulling the sheet with her to cover her breasts, and the modest gesture feels like a response to my withdrawal. "What time is it?"
I check the clock again, grateful for something neutral to focus on. "Almost seven."
"I should probably get ready. Check out's at eleven."
The reminder hits like cold water. Check out.Right. Because this was always temporary, always had an expiration date built into it.
And I'm an idiot for forgetting that, even for a moment.
"Right," I say, standing and reaching for my clothes. "I should get going anyway. Let you get packed."
"You don't have to rush off." But she says it like she expects me to anyway, like she's already preparing for me to leave.
And maybe I should. Maybe the smart thing would be to get dressed, say goodbye, and let this stay in the category of beautiful mistake instead of pushing it into territory that could hurt us both.
"I don't want to overstay my welcome," I say, pulling on my uniform shirt and focusing on the buttons instead of the hurt that flickers across her face.
She's quiet for a moment, and when I look up, she's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Of course," she says finally. "I should shower anyway. Get ready."
"Right."
She slides out of bed, taking the sheet with her, and disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water start, and I'm left standing there fully dressed in rumpled bedding, trying to figure out how I managed to make everything feel wrong so quickly.
But this is better. Safer. Clean exits are less messy than prolonged goodbyes, and we both know this was never going to be anything more than one night.
I'm tying my boots when she emerges from the bathroom, hair damp and wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater. She looks beautiful and distant, like she's already mentally checked out and moved on to whatever comes next.
"All set," she says brightly, but there's something hollow in her voice.
We stand there for a moment in uncomfortable silence, and I realize we've somehow managed to make last night feel like something to be embarrassed about instead of something to be celebrated.
"Going for breakfast?" I ask, because I need to say something, need to break the tension that's settled between us like fog.
"No. I was going to grab something on the road."
