She shifted, nose brushing the inside of my wrist before settling again.
The sound that left my throat wasn’t a word. Just air.
I stared at the ceiling until the world steadied. Then I attempted to sit up, one careful inch at a time. The blanket fell away, cold air rushing in where her body had been. The shock of it helped; it was easier to think when it hurt. But the more I moved, the moreshedid too.
If I woke her, she’d find us like this.
If I didn’t… well, she’dstillfind us like this.
Somewhere outside, a branch cracked under the weight of ice. The sound made her stir, and my heartbeat kicked hard once — ridiculous, involuntary — before she blinked her eyes open.
Her breathing changed before I moved.
That was the first thing I noticed—the small hitch in it, the faint drag of air that said she was awake but pretending not to be.
The next thing was warmth. Too much of it. The fire had burned high again, and the room glowed in amber light, soft and slow.
I hadn’t realized how close we’d gotten until now. My shirt had twisted in the night; the back of her hand brushed bare skin when she shifted. The touch was nothing, just an accident of space, but my pulse jumped anyway.
For a moment… something flashed before my eyes.
Her, pink haired and wild, beneath me. Lips parted, eyes closed. Sweat dripping down between her?—
I blinked hard, doing my best to clear the thought.
I kept still, every muscle taut. The air between us felt alive, almost electric, and I could hear my own heartbeat — steady, deliberate, giving me away.
When I finally looked down, her eyes were open. For a heartbeat, we didn’t speak. Her gaze flicked to the place where our arms met, to the fine trail of heat still between us, then back to my face.
“Morning,” I managed.
It came out rougher than I meant it to.
She blinked, slow, as if still half-dreaming. “You’re not on the couch.”
“No.” I swallowed. “Didn’t mean to…fall asleep here.”
The corner of her mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You’re warm,” she said softly.
That simple. That dangerous.
I pulled back just enough for air to slip between us, but the warmth lingered like an echo under my skin. I slid from the mattress, sitting back on my haunches as I poked at the fire.
She moved behind me, with the soft rustle of blankets and the quiet thud of her feet against the floorboards. I didn’t turn. I just kept coaxing the fire, jaw tight, pretending to study the flame instead of the sound of her moving through the cold.
“You took all the warmth with you,” she said finally.
It wasn’t accusing, not exactly. Just small. Tired. Like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. My hand stilled over the log I was about to place.
I could’ve laughed — made a joke, teased her, done anything to lighten it — but the words hit somewhere low in my chest. “I didn’t mean to,” I mumbled.
She made a soft sound — something between a sigh and a huff — and came closer. The blanket still clutched around her, cheeks pink from sleep, hair a little wild. She looked like a dream you weren’t supposed to wake from.
“Are you always this considerate?” she asked, “or just when you accidentally share body heat with a stranger?”
“I don’t make a habit of it,” I said, and still didn’t look up. “Sharing a bed with a stranger, that is.”
Her laugh was small, real. “That’s reassuring.”
