Jessie sleeps like she’s fighting off dreams.
Her brow furrows, smooths, furrows again. Her fingers twitch against my chest, curling into the fabric of my shirt like she’s holding on to something. She’s restless and searching even in her sleep, never truly at peace.
Morning light filters through the curtains, catching the red in her hair, turning it copper and gold. Her breath comes slow and even now, whatever dream she was battling finally releasing its grip. She burrows closer, her knee wedged somewhere it shouldn’t be, her palm flat against my ribs like she’s checking that I’m still here.
I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
The thought settles into me, bone-deep. This chaotic, brilliant, sunshine-and-teeth woman has burrowed into every corner of my life in a matter of weeks. My flannel smells like her now. My kitchen table is covered in her sketches. My truck still carries the ghost of what we did in the woods, and every time I slide into the passenger seat, my blood runs hot.
But none of that matters if she leaves.
The gallery show looms like a countdown timer I can’t stop. Just over two weeks until New York comes calling. Until she has to choose between the life she built before me and whatever this is between us.
I already know what I want. Have known since the auction, if I’m honest. Since she walked onto that stage, and I thought:There. That one. She’s mine.
But wanting someone isn’t the same as keeping them.
I’ve been too much before. Too big, too intense. I’ve watched people flinch away from the space I take up, had relationships crumble under the weight of my need to protect, to fix, to build walls around the people I love.
Jessie doesn’t flinch. She leans in. Pushes back. She fills up every corner of my life with her brand of sunshine.
But she’s always on the move, never really staying anywhere for long. And I’ve never been enough to make someone want to stay.
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and soft. “Stop staring at me.” Sleep roughens her voice. “It’s creepy.”
“Can’t help it. You drool in your sleep.”
“I donot.” She lifts her head, hair a magnificent disaster, eyes still half-closed. “Take it back.”
“Can’t. I have photographic evidence.”
“You do not.”
“Might.”
She swats at my chest, but she’s smiling, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet”—I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let my thumb trace her cheekbone—“here you are.”
“Here I am.” Her expression shifts, becoming soft and wondering, like she’s still surprised to find herself in my bed. “Weird, right?”
Her sleepy vulnerability makes my chest ache.
“Little bit.” I kiss her forehead, letting my lips linger. “Get dressed. I want to show you something.”
“Show me what?”
“Something.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all the answer you’re getting.” I roll out of bed, ignoring her indignant squawk. “Wear boots. The good ones.”
“I only have one pair of boots!”
“Then wear those.”
The pillow hits me in the back of the head as I’m pulling on jeans.
