He bolts upright instantly, eyes snapping open, hand already braced against the floor like he’s prepared for anything.
“Are you okay?” he asks immediately, voice rough with sleep but edged with concern.
The question lands harder than I expect.
“I—I’m fine,” I say, still staring at him like I might be hallucinating. “What the hell areyoudoing?”
He scrubs a hand over his face, sitting up fully now. “I was worried about you,” he admits quietly. “New house. New routine. I didn’t want something to happen and not be there.”
I blink. “You slept… here?”
Henods once, almost sheepish. “I didn’t know if I should come back into the room after the way I left things. Didn’t want to assume.”
My chest tightens.
“So you chose the floor?”
His mouth twitches. “Seemed safer.”
I don’t know what to say.
This man—who owns half of everything he touches, who walks into rooms like they belong to him—slept on the hallway floor outside my door because he didn’t want to cross a line.
Because he was worried about me.
The realization settles deep, heavy and warm and terrifying all at once.
“You could’ve knocked,” I say softly.
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
I look down at him—rumpled, exhausted, still half-wrapped in that blanket—and something inside me shifts.
I’m not going to push him away.
I’m tired of running. Tired of pretending I don’t care when I do. Tired of building walls before anyone even has the chance to knock.
I care about him.
That part feels terrifyingly clear now.
I like being around him. I feel lighter with him. I feel… safe. And if we’re going to live under the same roof—if this marriage is going to exist in any real way—I don’t want distance carved into the middle of it.
I swallow hard and finally meet his eyes.
“Langston,” I say quietly.
He looks up immediately, fully alert, like my voice alone is enough to pull him to attention.
“What if…” My fingers curl at my sides. “What if I want you to sleep in bed with me?”
The words hang there, fragile and exposed.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he rises slowly to his feet, every movement deliberate. He’s careful with the space between us, like he knows how easily this could tip into something neither of us is ready to survive.
He lifts a hand and cups my cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath my eye. The touch is warm. Steady. Intimate in a way that makes my chest ache.
