She doesn’t pull away. “Must be.”
The moment stretches, our eyes locked, breaths mingling. I can see the pulse in her throat fluttering. Mine matches.
I stand first. “More coffee?”
She exhales and sits back. “Please.”
I refill her mug. When I hand it to her, our fingers brush again, deliberately this time.
As we work, Megan steals my flannel shirt off the back of the couch because “it’s warmer than anything in the guest drawer,” and damn if seeing her in my clothes doesn’t do something dangerous to my chest. The sleeves are too long; she rolls them up, but they keep slipping. Every time she pushes them back, I notice the way the soft fabric clings to her curves, the way it smells like me now, mixed with her vanilla shampoo.
We break for lunch. I make grilled cheese and tomato soup. I think she needs some comfort food. She sits on the counter while I cook, legs swinging, stealing bites of cheese off the cutting board.
“Careful,” she teases, popping a piece in her mouth and licking her thumb slowly, deliberately. “You’re going to spoil me.”
I lean one hip against the counter beside her, arms crossed. “You complaining?”
She meets my eyes, smiling wickedly. “Not yet. But keep feeding me like this, and I might never leave.”
My jaw tightens. “That a threat or a promise?”
She laughs. It’s soft, low, and dangerous. “Depends on how good you are at keeping me.”
I turn back to the stove before I do something stupid.
Afternoon bleeds into evening.
We move to the couch for the late-night research session. Laptops balanced on thighs, files spread across the coffee table. The fire I started earlier crackles low, throwing warm light across her face. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, still wearing my flannel.
Every time she leans over to point at something on my screen, her hair brushes my arm. Every time I shift to reach a file, my thigh presses harder against hers. The tension is a living thing, thick and electric, humming between us.
She yawns, stretches, arching her back in a way that pulls the flannel tight across her breasts—the top button strains. I look away. Fast.
“You’re tired,” I say. “We should call it a night.”
“In a minute.” She rubs her eyes, keeps reading. “I just want to cross-reference this transfer date with—”
Her head drops. Slowly. Until it lands on my shoulder.
I freeze.
She’s asleep.
Her breathing evens out, soft and steady. Her hand rests on my thigh. It’s totally innocent, but I can’t stop my heart from hammering so hard I’m sure she can feel it.
I should wake her. Move her. Put distance between us.
Instead, I sit perfectly still.
Minutes pass. Her breathing deepens. She shifts closer, curling into my side like she belongs there with her face tuckedagainst my neck, one arm draped across my stomach, fingers curling loosely in my shirt.
The flannel rides up a little. Her bare thigh presses against mine.
I close my eyes. Breathe through my nose. Count to ten.
It doesn’t help.
I give up pretending I don’t want to touch her when I slide one arm behind her back, the other under her knees, and lift her carefully. She murmurs something soft, doesn’t wake. I carry her down the hall to the bedroom, my bedroom, and lay her on the sheets I changed this morning. She looks small in the big bed, peaceful, vulnerable.
