Footsteps in the hallway outside the apartment.
Someone laughing in the distance, maybe on the street, maybe in another building entirely.
I blink at the ceiling.
It’s not mine.
The room isn’t mine.
The smell isn’t mine.
The air isn’t mine.
It’s Finn’s.
Finn’s apartment.
Finn’s spare bedroom.
Finn’s sheets tangled around my legs.
And Finn’s arm—heavy, warm, absolutely not subtle—draped across my waist like he spent the whole night making sure I didn’t slip away.
My face floods with heat.
Right.
Last night.
I close my eyes and let the memories hit me in a slow, dizzying wave—his mouth on my throat, his hands sliding under my shirt, the soft, broken sounds he made against my skin, the way he looked at me like he couldn’t believe I wanted him back.
My stomach flips so hard I have to press my palm against it.
A soft exhale brushes the back of my neck.
Finn.
He’s still asleep—if you can call it sleep, because he’s wrapped around me like a seatbelt, forehead pressed to the space between my shoulder blades, his chest fitting perfectly against the curve of my spine.One of his legs is tangled with mine.
I’m pretty sure if I tried to escape, he’d instinctively drag me back without ever waking up.
I turn gently onto my back, and his arm slides with me, adjusting automatically.His face is inches from mine now—hair sticking up wildly, eyelashes dark against his cheek, mouth relaxed in a way I’ve never seen when he’s awake.
The intimacy of it—the vulnerability of seeing him like this—makes something deep inside me clench.
I shouldn’t stare.
But I do.
He’s beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with symmetry.Beautiful in the way he feels—warm, earnest, a mess of sunshine and nerves and quiet bravery he tries to hide with humor.Beautiful in the way he touched me last night, like he was terrified he’d hurt me but even more terrified he wouldn’t touch me enough.
I lift my hand slowly and brush a stray piece of hair away from his forehead.
He makes a small noise at the contact.
Then his eyes open—blue and groggy and unbearably soft.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
