“Can’t sleep?” I asked, turning off the side lamps.
She didn’t respond.
I took a sip of water and slid into bed, scrolling through my phone to deal with the never-ending stream of emails. Between us stood a wall of pillows—a ridiculous fortressshe’d built and hugged as if they were her lifeline. Despite the king-size bed, it felt unexpectedly cramped.
Absentmindedly, I reached for one of the pillows, trying to reclaim some space, but froze the instant my fingers grazed the bare skin of her arm.
Warm. Soft.
The breath caught in my throat. My entire body went still, hyper-aware of the proximity—the absolute lack of space between us. Her presence—so quiet just moments ago—now pulsed through the air like a current I couldn’t ignore.
I swallowed hard, eyes flickering back to the glowing screen of my phone, pretending to focus.
I couldn’t.
“Happy Birthday,” her voice came—soft, unsure, slicing straight through the stillness.
I turned, just slightly. And in the dim light, I felt her fingers reach for mine, gently, like a whisper that needed permission to exist.
I put my phone down.
“I don’t do birthdays,” I said, voice quiet.
“Why not?”
“Get some sleep,” I said. “It’s late.”
I pulled my hand back, trying to reestablish a line neither of us should cross.
But she wasn’t done.
“You should never reject birthday wishes,” she murmured, her voice muffled by the fortress of pillows she hugged like old friends. “I’m going to wish you again. And this time, you’re going to accept it.”
And just like that, she began gathering the pillows between us, one by one, removing the only things left keeping me sane.
“Kiara…” I warned, or maybe begged.
But before I could say another word, she leaned forward—arms wrapping softly around my neck, warm and disarming, her scent brushing against every last thread of restraint I had left.
Vanilla.
And something heartbreakingly her.
“Happy birthday, handsome,” she whispered, her lips near my ear, the words brushing against my skin like a secret never meant to be spoken aloud.
I froze.
My thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm, half of them screaming to step back, to stop this before it spiraled, and the other half—
The other half wanted to stay.
To hold.
To feel.
Her head came to rest against my chest as if it belonged there. Like this wasn’t just chaos—it was something natural. Something right.
My arms—traitorous things—moved on their own, sliding around her waist, as if they'd been waiting for this moment longer than I was willing to admit.
