And yet, here we are.
Three bodies. One bed. No one touching.
I count the inches between Rafe's knee and mine: four. Maybe five. The sheet between us might as well be steel for all I dare disturb it. My shoulder blade presses into the mattress at an angle that will ache tomorrow, but I don't shift. The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Rafe's chest rises, falls, rises. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand. His eyelashes cast thin shadows across his cheeks when he blinks. The heat from him radiates across the gap between us—not touching, never touching, but I feel it all the same.
The desert wind finds a loose corner of the window frame, whistling through with a hollow sound. Sand taps against glass like impatient fingertips.
My eyes stay open in the dark. Across the room, Bishop's do too.
The digital clock blinks 3:17, and no one sleeps.
43
BELLAMY
Something pulls me from sleep—aghost of pressure along my skin. My eyelids remain heavy, but my nerve endings spark to life. The pad of Rafe's index finger draws invisible patterns up the tender inside of my forearm, each swirl leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His touch barely disturbs the fine hairs there, yet heat blooms beneath my skin. My breath wants to catch, my muscles want to twitch, but I keep myself statue-still, pulse thudding in my throat as I hover in that liminal space between consciousness and surrender.
A thin blade of silver cuts across the sheets where the curtains don't quite meet. When I shift, the mattress protests with a soft groan that freezes Rafe's fingertip mid-circle against my skin. One-one-thousand, two—then his touch resumes its path. In the half-light, his pupils have swallowed most of the color in his eyes. He hasn't looked away once, not even to blink, his gaze steady beneath heavy lids while his thumb traces the inside of my wrist where my pulse hammers against thin skin.
My breath catches as his eyes meet mine in the half-light. The corners of his mouth lift slightly, not quite a smile but somethingmore private. His pupils are wide and dark, his breathing steady and unhurried while mine comes quick and shallow.
When I whisper, my voice barely disturbs the air between us. “Can't sleep?”
One slow shake of his head, his gaze never leaving mine. The mattress dips and creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, erasing inches between us until the heat of his skin radiates against my arm, my shoulder, my side.
“I hope I didn't keep you up,” I murmur.
His lips part slightly before he shakes his head again, the movement barely perceptible against the pillow.
His fingers slide higher, tracing the hollow where my shoulder meets my neck, then drifting across my collarbone like he's memorizing me by touch. The room narrows to just that point of contact—warm fingertips against my skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. My lungs forget how to work properly, my inhale catching halfway.
“I—” The word escapes on a whisper, unfinished.
He hums, the sound vibrating low in his chest, and his hand continues its journey—up the column of my throat where my pulse hammers against his palm, then into my hair. His fingers tangle in the strands, grip tightening just enough that my chin lifts, exposing my throat to the cool night air.
My lips part. Something between a gasp and a sigh escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth. My head tilts back instinctively.
“Shh, baby,” he whispers, the words warm against the corner of my mouth.
I bridge the paper-thin distance between us, my lips meeting his with a softness that makes my chest ache. His mouth yields, then claims—a gentle give and take. His tongue traces my lower lip, asking rather than demanding, and I open to him with a sigh that dissolves into the dark. My fingers drift up, finding thewarm skin where his hairline meets his neck, curling into the soft strands there as the room spins slowly around us.
His fingers thread through my hair, cradling the curve of my skull as his mouth moves against mine—slow, deliberate. His tongue dips inside my mouth with unhurried precision. He tastes like mint and something darker beneath. My hand finds the warm skin at his nape, fingers curling into the soft hair there, neither pulling him closer nor holding him in place—just anchoring myself as the room tilts slightly on its axis. Minutes stretch, contract, disappear entirely as oxygen becomes secondary to the gentle pressure of his bottom lip between my teeth, the soft exhale that follows.
The recliner creaks—a single, sharp protest of wood against metal.
My lips tear from Rafe's, my spine going rigid. Every muscle in my body freezes mid-breath as I strain to hear beyond the thundering in my chest. My gaze darts past his shoulder toward the bathroom, but the chair sits in shadows behind me. Five feet away. Maybe less. I can’t see it.
The white noise machine hums its steady static. Seconds stretch. Nothing moves.
My fingers still curl into Rafe's hair, refusing to let go even as my brain screams to pull back. His breath warms my collarbone in shallow puffs. Beneath my palm, his heartbeat matches the wild rhythm of mine.
My lips part, the words forming—words about stopping, about breathing, about sleeping.
Weshouldn’t.
Wecan’t.
