I could stay like this forever — actually forever.
My body aches in places that remind me exactly what we did last night, exactly how many ways he touched me, exactly how many times I lost my breath and then found it again only because he gave it back to me.
I stretch just a little, and Ethan shifts behind me. His hand tightens at my hip instinctively, pulling me closer in his sleep.
A full-body shiver rolls through me. We’re lovers now. Not fake anything. Not holiday pretend. Not “oops, we accidentally kissed.” Not “we drifted in our sleep.”
We crossed the line. We crossedeveryline. And I don’t regret a single second.
What Idoregret is the fact that eventually, Mayor Janice is probably going to burst through this door waving clipboards like a festive grim reaper. If she knocks right now, I swear I’ll tell her exactly where to stick her candy cane–striped schedule.
But it’s quiet. No knocking or shrieking “Rise and shine, lovebirds!” Just Ethan’s steady breathing and the afterglow still flowing through my bones. I let my eyes drift shut again.
If I never had to leave this bed for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t complain. I’d stay right here memorizing the way Ethan murmured my name last night, the way his hands felt on my skin, the way his voice dropped when he lost control.
I swallow hard. Real life doesn’t feel like this. Not for me.
I’m the girl who makes memories inside glass globes because real ones aren’t safe. Real ones break. Real ones are messy and unpredictable.
Last night was messy and unpredictable. And perfect. Which means it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever let myself want.
A shadow of dread curls into my stomach. What if he regrets it? What if last night was the result of holiday pressure and forced proximity? Or maybe it was the chocolates and not enough oxygen reaching his brain?
What if he wakes up and panics? What if I ruined the ease we finally had between us?
After a few seconds, Ethan stirs again. His nose brushes the back of my shoulder, and a low sound rumbles in his chest — something sleepy and warm and unmistakably content.
It does terrible, wonderful things to me.
“Harper?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
My heart flips. “Mm?”
“You’re thinking too loud.”
I suck in a soft gasp.Can he feel what I’m thinking? Maybe, he notices everything.
Carefully — too carefully — I turn in his arms. He opens his eyes, lids heavy, lashes dark against the faint morning light coming through the window. His hair is a mess. His expression is soft in a way I’ve never seen on him before. He looks at me like he doesn’t mind waking up this close. Like he doesn’t mind at all.
My voice comes out small. “Good morning.”
His fingers trace the bare skin of my waist, slow, warm, thoughtful. “Morning.”
I search his face for regret or guilt. Anything that suggests last night was a mistake. But I don’t find any. Instead he studies me — not with panic or restraint — but with something quiet and intense that makes me feel warm all over again.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“I think so,” I admit. “Maybe.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “Maybe?”
My throat tightens. “I don’t want … I mean … I hope you don’t regret anything.”
For a moment, he just looks at me. Then he cups my cheek, thumb brushing gently under my eye.
“Harper,” he says quietly, firmly, “I don’t regret a damn thing.”
Air leaves my lungs in a slow, shaky exhale. Before I can answer, a distant sound echoes from the hallway — footsteps, voices, someone loudly complaining about snow. We both freeze.
