I don’t move.
She’s looking up at me now, and I can see her face clearly in the dim light from the window. Can see the confusion there, the conflict. The way she’s trying to reconcile what she knows with what she’s feeling.
We’re too close. Somehow, the space between us has compressed to almost nothing, and I’m not sure which of us moved or if we both did.
Her fragrance wraps around me, making my dragon stir despite the exhaustion. She’s warmer than she should be. I can feel the heat radiating from her even through the space that separates us, and my body responds before my mind can stop it.
Her breathing changes. Shallow. Quick.
My hand lifts—not a conscious decision, just movement toward something I shouldn’t want. Toward her.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second, but I see it. See the way her pupils dilate, the way her lips part slightly.
She’s leaning in. Or I am. Or both of us are being pulled by something neither of us chose, and neither of us knows how to resist.
The space between us shrinks to inches. I can count her exhales, can see the pulse in her throat, can feel the pull of proximity like gravity.
Almost—
She jerks back. Sharp. Violent. Like I burned her.
“No.” The word comes out harsh. Not to me. To herself.
She turns and puts the entire room between us, pressing her back against the far wall. Won’t look at me. Her hands are shaking.
“We should sleep,” she says, voice tight and controlled with visible effort. “It’s been a long day.”
I don’t move for a moment. Just stand there trying to process what almost happened, what we both almost allowed to happen.
“The floor’s fine,” I say finally. “I’ll take it.”
“No.” She shakes her head without looking at me. “The bed’s big enough. We’re both adults. And you saved my life today. Twice. I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”
She says it like it’s purely practical, like proximity doesn’t matter, like what just almost happened between us can be ignored.
We both know that’s not true.
But she’s already moving, pulling back the comforter on the left side, sitting down, then sliding beneath the cover fully dressed… in my clothes. I do the same on the right side. I kick off my boots. Stay above the covers. Keep space between us that feels increasingly inadequate.
She reaches over and turns off the lamp.
Darkness fills the room completely, sudden and complete.
We lie there rigid, both pretending we’re not hyperaware of exactly how close the other is. Her breathing is too fast. Mine probably is too. I can feel the warmth radiating from her body across the space between us, can smell her in every breath, can hear every small movement she makes against the sheets.
Minutes pass in silence. Long minutes where neither of us relaxes, neither of us surrenders to the exhaustion that should be pulling us under.
She shifts slightly, and the mattress dips with the movement. I feel like she’s closer, even though neither of us has moved. Or maybe we have. Maybe in the darkness, our bodies are making decisions our minds refuse to acknowledge.
I’m aware of her in ways that go beyond practical assessment. The rhythm of her breathing. The heat of her skin. The way her scent fills the space between us—stronger in the darkness, or maybe I’m just more aware now that I can’t see her. My dragon responds to it despite my efforts to stay still, to stay separate, to maintain the distance that’s supposed to keep this safe.
She shifts again. Closer this time. Maybe unconscious, maybe not.
Her hand slides across the mattress in sleep or near-sleep. Stops an inch from mine. I can feel the warmth of her palm even through that small distance, can sense the unconscious movement of her fingers relaxing as exhaustion finally starts to claim her.
I lower my eyes and watch those fingers in the darkness, barely visible, and wonder what happens if that inch disappears. If her hand finds mine. If her body makes choices in sleep that she won’t allow when awake. If the wolf in her decides what the woman is fighting against.
Outside, the wind picks up. A storm system is moving in, rattling the window in its frame.
