His mouth parts in a silent oh, and I catch myself staring.
His lips are soft and full, reminding me of how much of a freaking good kisser he is.
I drag my eyes back up slowly, catching his again.
Still tired. Still open. Without another word, I take his hand, and he lets me.
I lead him upstairs, our fingers loosely tangled. There’s a kind of silence between us that isn’t heavy. Just… gentle.
He doesn’t resist when I guide him toward the bathroom, just follows quietly like he’s already halfway asleep.
And maybe it’s silly how much I enjoy being able to do this for him—just this.
Just… be here.
After a torturous 45 minutes of zoom meeting, it finally came to an end.
I close the laptop and let my head fall back against the chair, dragging a tired hand over my face. My body aches from sitting too long, from thinking too much, from missing him even though he’s only a floor above.
I climb the stairs quietly, not wanting to wake him. The bedroom lights are dim, and he’s curled up on my bed, sleeping peacefully, like he belongs here. Like he was made to be here.
I watch him for a moment longer than I probably should.
Then I turn, heading down to the home gym.
One hour later, my shirt is soaked through, clinging to my back, and my arms feel like they’re buzzing—half from the workout, half from something else I’m not naming yet. I drag the shirt off, toss it aside, and throw a towel around my neck as I head upstairs.
And there he is.
Standing near the bed, still soft with sleep, drinking from the bottle of water I left for him earlier. His curls are a beautiful mess, falling over his forehead. He’s wearing one of my tank tops, it hangs on his frame like it belongs there, and the sweatpants I bought him earlier this week are slung low on his hips, clearly untied. He’s barefoot, quiet, and blinking at me with those sleepy, glassy eyes. He looks like he was made to be here. Like the room’s too empty without him in it.
His eyes drift over me, tracing the sweat trailing down my chest, then flicking away quickly like he didn’t mean to look. But he did. I saw it.
I let out a breath. “Didn’t expect you to wake up this fast.”
He lowers the bottle slowly.
“My phone rang.” He pauses, rubbing a hand along his arm. “It was Tyler. Asked if I’m coming home tonight.”
Home.
That word lingers and hangs between us.
I take a step closer, my eyes on him.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask, my voice quieter now. It’s not just a question. It’s a line in the sand.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops. His fingers curl tighter around the hem of the tank top he’s wearing, and for a second he just… breathes.
Then, finally, he lifts his head and looks at me.
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says softly.
That one word lands like a match in my chest. Quiet. Certain. And the relief that hits me is so fierce I have to bite it down before it shows too much.
“And you told him you won’t be home?”
