“I’ve slept on worse.”
“I doubt it.”
She pokes me again. “Stop being overprotective.”
I catch her wrist. Her breath catches and we both go still. Her pulse flutters under my fingers. Her skin is warm. Soft. Way too soft.
“Lucy,” I warn, voice low. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” she whispers.
“Challenge me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired. Because this storm is bad. Because my restraint is shot to hell. Because you’re wearing a sweater that should be illegal. Because your hair smells like vanilla and snow. Because I’m one second from?—”
I cut myself off. Her eyes go wide.
She whispers, “From what?”
I drop her wrist like it burns.
“Bed,” I snap. “Take it.”
She stares at me a long moment—curious, flustered, confused—and then shakes her head.
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“No, Ash.”
“I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“And I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t need comfort.”
“Too bad.”
“This isn’t a debate.”
“It is now.”
“Lucy.”
“Ash.”
Her tone matches mine. Her chin lifts.
Heat surges through me like someone struck a match in my chest. I inhale sharply. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she echoes.
“We’ll both sleep here.”
She blinks. “In the same bed?”
