Finally, he clears his throat. “We should try to get some rest. I’ll take the couch again.”
The couch that shrank him by a foot and tried to murder his spine last night.
The idea of him out here, alone, while I’m down that hallway by myself makes my skin prickle.
“Or,” I blurt, “you could… not?”
He blinks. “Not what?”
“Not take the couch.” My cheeks go hot, but I push through the embarrassment. “You could, you know. Sleep… in the bed. With me.”
I say it fast. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
His whole body goes still.
I rush to clarify. “Not like that. I mean—okay, notnotlike that, but that’s not what I’m asking. I just… I didn’t like being down there alone. And I know I talk big about not being scared, and I meant what I said about using all the Krav Maga if someone comes through that door, but?—”
“Lark.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Breathe.”
I drag in a breath.
He studies me, expression softening. “You’re scared,” he says.
“A little,” I admit. “Off and on. It comes in waves. I keep seeing the bounty text over your face. Over mine. Feels like if I close my eyes for too long, someone’s going to kick that door in and…” I trail off, swallowing.
He pushes off the wall, stepping closer. His hand comes up slowly, giving me time to flinch away if I want to. I don’t.He rests his fingers lightly against my forearm. “You want me there,” he says. “So you feel safe.”
“Yes.”
“You sure that’s all this is?” he asks quietly.
I meet his eyes.
Am I sure?
No.
But safety is the root of it. The tree that’s grown on top is… everything else.
“I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to,” I say, voice softer. “No… extra. Just you, in the bed, next to me, so if I wake up at three a.m. and my brain decides to run a worst-case scenario marathon, you can say something grumpy and ridiculous and remind me we’re not dead yet.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of responsibility for one grumpy ridiculous man,” he says.
“You’re good at it.”
He looks down, jaw working, like he’s fighting with himself. “I won’t touch you,” he says finally. The words sound like they hurt coming out. “If I sleep there. I’ll stay on my side. You won’t have to worry about me crossing any lines.”
“That’s not why I want you there,” I say, the truth bursting out before I can tame it. “I mean, yes, okay, physical proximity to your body is not exactly a hardship, but that’s not the point. I want you there because when you’re near, I feel… anchored. Like the world can scream at us all it wants and we’ll just… flip it off together.”
His eyes flick up to mine.
Something in them cracks open.
“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll stay.”
Relief rushes through me, tinged with nerves. “Cool,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of squeaky. “Great. Awesome. Bed-sharing for safety. Very adult.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “You’re adorably bad at pretending this is nothing.”
