She studies me, head tilted. “You know he’s not going to show up here and punch you for sharing a bed with me, right?”
“He might.”
“That’d be funny.”
“It would not.”
She steps closer, voice dropping into something between tease and something else. “What if I don’t want the bed by myself?”
My body responds before my brain can shut it down.
Every muscle tightens. Heat coils low.
I keep my voice steady. “That’s not an option.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I say, realizing too late how honest I’m about to be, “I don’t trust myself to sleep next to you and not…”
I trail off.
She leans in. “Not what?”
I could lie.
I don’t.
“Not touch you.”
The words land in the air like a flare.
Her lips part.
For a long, dangerous moment, we just stare at each other.
Then she smiles, slow and wicked. “Maybe I don’t want you to not touch me.”
I close my eyes for half a second. This girl is going to be the death of me. “We’re not doing this tonight,” I say roughly. “You’ve had a run, a scare, and three cups of gas station coffee. Your nervous system is lying to you.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m surviving.”
She searches my face. Whatever she sees there makes her sigh. “Fine,” she says, backing off half a step. “But just so you know, ifI have nightmares, I’m climbing into your bed—I mean couch—and you don’t get a vote.”
“Duly noted.”
We stand there a second longer, the air thick with everything we’re not doing.
Finally, she huffs out a laugh. “Goodnight, Knight.”
“Goodnight, Lark.”
She disappears down the hall, and I’m left alone with the hum of the fridge, the creak of the wood, and the loud, annoying thud of my own heart.
I grab a pillow and a folded blanket from the linen closet, toss them on the couch, and lie down.
The cushions are narrow. Lumpy. My feet hang over the arm. A coil of a spring digs into my ribs.
