Sometime in the night, we drifted together. My arm is around her, her head on my chest, her hand curled against my ribs like she’s holding on. Like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
I should move. Should extract myself carefully, put distance between us, rebuild the walls I’ve spent ten years constructing.
I don’t.
Her scent is everywhere. Honey and citrus, but sweeter than I remember. Richer. It fills my lungs with every breath, and I want to purr, want to pull her closer and never let her leave this bed.
She’s beautiful like this. Face soft with sleep, lips slightly parted, dark hair spilling across my chest. The tension she carries when she’s awake is gone. She looks young. Peaceful.
She looks like she did ten years ago, the last time I held her.
My chest aches.
I’ve spent a decade trying to forget this. Trying to convince myself I was better off without her. That what we had was just kids playing at love, that it wouldn’t have lasted anyway, that the ache would eventually fade.
It never did.
And now she’s here, in my arms, and I’m terrified.
Because wanting her is easy. Wanting her is the most natural thing in the world. But trusting her? Believing she won’t leave again?
That’s the part I don’t know how to do.
She stirs against me. A small sound, almost a sigh, and then she’s blinking awake, her eyes finding mine.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Morning,” she whispers.
“Morning.”
She doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
“We ended up...” She glances down at our tangled position, her cheeks flushing pink.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“I know.”
Silence. Her hand is still on my chest, right over my heart. She has to feel how fast it’s beating.
“Nate.”
“We should get moving.” I force myself to sit up, to break the contact. My body protests the loss of her warmth. “Long drive ahead.”
She watches me for a moment, her expression careful. Then she nods and slides out of bed, heading for the bathroom without another word.
I sit there in the empty bed that still smells like her and try to remember how to breathe.
The driveto LA is easier than yesterday.
Something shifted between us last night. I don’t know how to name it, but the silence isn’t heavy anymore. It’s comfortable. Natural. She keeps the window cracked and the wind plays with her hair, and I have to force myself to watch the road instead of her.
She tells me about her books. Not the spicy parts—thank god, I’ve heard enough of that from Theo’s dramatic readings—but the process. How she builds worlds and characters. How she writes for six hours straight some days and can’t squeeze out a single word on others.
“The hardest part is the middle,” she says, gesturing with a gas station coffee cup. “You know where you’re starting and where you’re going, but the middle is just... endless.”
