I’m exhausted. We both need sleep. And this couch standoff isn’t getting us anywhere.
She’s lighter than she should be, fitting against me too perfectly. Those amber eyes look up at me, wide with surprise but not fear. Never fear. Not with me.
I carry her to the bedroom, drop her on the bed—firm but not rough. Toss her pillow down. Throw the blanket over her.
“Sleep. Keep your cold feet to yourself,” I add, trying for stern but probably miss by a mile.
A soft giggle escapes her. The sound hits me square in the chest—when’s the last time I made a woman laugh? Really laugh?
I grab the other pillow, climb in on the far side. Put my back to her, trying to keep maximum distance in a queen-size bed.
I’m just settling in when I feel it—those cold feet pressing against my legs.
“Seriously?” I don’t turn around, but I’m grinning despite myself.
Another quiet giggle. Her toes flex against my legs.
I sigh, loud and dramatic, but don’t move away. “You’re impossible.”
She doesn’t respond, just wiggles her feet to get comfortable. Like this is normal. Like we do this every night.
Maybe we could.
She doesn’t say anything. The mattress dips as she settles, and I’m hyperaware of every movement. The soft rustle of sheets. Her quiet breathing. The warmth of another body in the bed.
I close my eyes, treating this like any mission requiring sleep in hostile territory. Except the threat isn’t external. It’s internal. It’s the urge to turn around and finish what we started against that wall.
Time passes. Her breathing finally deepens into real sleep. The tension in my shoulders slowly releases.
Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can share a bed without?—
Somehow, I drift off.
I wake to warmth. Soft curves pressed against my chest. My arm draped over a waist and my hand splayed across bare skin where the shirt has ridden up. Her ass pressed tight against my groin, where I’m hard as stone.
We’re spooning.
I’m wrapped around her like I’m protecting her even in sleep. Her hair tickles my nose. She smells like vanilla and something uniquely her.
My hand is on her bare stomach. Skin like silk.
Fuck.
She shifts slightly, pressing back against me. A small sound escapes her throat. Not quite awake but not fully asleep. My cock throbs against her ass, and there’s no way she doesn’t feel it.
It feels domestic. Safe. For a second, I allow myself to imagine this is just a normal morning. No hit squads. No conspiracies. Just a man and a woman waking up together.
I should move. Pull away. Take another cold shower.
Instead, I’m frozen. Because this feels right. Natural. Like pieces clicking into place.
Her breathing changes. She’s waking up. Her body tenses slightly as awareness returns, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she presses back more deliberately.
“Jackson?” Her voice is soft, sleep-rough, uncertain.
I ease my arm away, slow and careful, like I’m defusing something fragile. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling until the ache fades and the fantasy with it. The room settles. Morning light creeps in, pale and thin, exposing reality for what it is. I clear my throat. Give her space. Give us both a way out.
She turns over, pulling the sheet with her, eyes flicking to my face and then away. A question there. An apology she doesn’t voice. Neither do I. I get up first. Clothes. Distance. The routine clicks in—coffee, windows checked, the quiet inventory of exits and threats. By the time she joins me in the kitchen, we’re two people moving carefully around each other, pretending the morning didn’t almost become something else.
