I check my phone. 2:47 AM. The security feeds show empty hallways, quiet streets. No movement. No threats. Just silence and my own breathing, plus the knowledge that she’s in there, curled up in sheets that’ll smell like her tomorrow.
The bedroom door opens.
She stands in the doorway for a moment, silhouetted by moonlight. Her borrowed shirt hits mid-thigh, bare legs, hair a messy bun from tossing and turning. She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me with those golden eyes, then turns and disappears.
I think she’s gone back to bed until she returns. Pillow under one arm, blanket draped over her shoulder. Still silent.
“Talia—”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Go back to bed.”
“I can’t sleep in that big bed by myself.” She moves closer, and I catch her scent—vanilla and something uniquely her. “Either you come join me, or I’m joining you on the couch.”
“That’s not happening.”
She arches an eyebrow, tilts her head. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it’s definitely happening.”
Before I can respond, she’s moving. Not toward the bedroom. Toward me.
“Talia—”
“Scoot over.”
“The couch is barely big enough for?—”
She’s already climbing onto the couch, but at the opposite end. Her feet press against my back as she curls up, punching her pillow—where the hell did she get a pillow?—and snapping the blanket over herself like this is perfectly normal.
Like she belongs here.
“Much better,” she mumbles, already settling in.
Her feet press against my back.
The audacity. She’s using me as a footrest.
“The bed’s more comfortable,” I tell her.
No response. She just shifts, getting comfortable, her cold feet finding the warmth of my back through my shirt. Every small movement sends awareness shooting through me.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say.
Still nothing. She punches her pillow into shape, settles deeper into the cushions. Her toes flex against my spine.
Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Her breathing doesn’t even out—she’s awake, stubborn, making a point without saying a word. This silent rebellion is worse than any argument. At least with words, I know how to counter.
But this?
This quiet determination to share space on her terms? It’s reclaiming the territory Nathan stole from her. She’s taking up space, deliberately.
It’s fucking maddening.
Thirty minutes. Her feet keep shifting, pressing, claiming space. Neither of us is sleeping. This is torture—cramped and uncomfortable and charged with everything we’re not acknowledging.
Fuck this. She wins.
I stand abruptly. Before she can react, I scoop her up—pillow, blanket, and all. She lets out a startled squeak that shoots straight to my groin. Her arms instinctively wrap around my neck, fingers gripping my shirt, and Christ, I’m instantly hard. Her body pressed against my chest, the little sound she made, the way she automatically turns into me for security?—
