I should sleep. Get a few hours before tomorrow's chaos. But I don't want to miss this. Don't want to lose a single moment of her choosing to lean into me instead of away.
So I stay awake, holding her, memorizing the way she feels against me.
And I start making plans.
How to introduce her to the family without overwhelming her. How to show her she's more than just a solution to my problem. How to turn this forced arrangement into something she actually wants.
For how to make Florrie Cassel into Florrie Dubovicha in more than just name.
She shifts again, and this time her eyes flutter open briefly. Unfocused, still half-asleep.
"Leon?" Her voice is rough, confused.
"I'm here." I run my hand up her spine again. "Go back to sleep."
"Don't leave." It's barely a whisper.
Something in my chest cracks open.
"I won't," I promise, kissing the top of her head. "I'm not going anywhere."
She murmurs softly and drifts back under.
And I hold her through the last of the darkness, into the grey light of dawn, and think about how just hours ago I was conducting a routine arms deal. Now I'm holding a woman I barely know and planning a future I never wanted.
Impossibly, it feels exactly right.
Florrie
I wake to warmth and the steady thump of a heartbeat under my ear.
For a moment, I can't remember where I am. The light is too soft, the room too quiet, the scent too masculine and unfamiliar.
Then it all crashes back.
The warehouse. The guns. A stranger claiming me as his wife.
Leon.
My eyes snap open, and I realize with a rush of heat that I'm still in his lap, sprawled across him like he's a piece of furniture. One of my legs is hooked over his thigh, my hand fisted in his shirt, my face pressed against his chest.
Oh god.
I start to pull away, but his arm tightens around me.
"Easy." His voice is rough with fatigue. "You're okay."
"I fell asleep on you." The words come out muffled against his shirt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize." He drops a kiss to the top of my head in a way that feels familiar and normal and I’m not sure what to do with it.
I lean back enough to look at him, and the sight makes my breath catch.
He's still in his clothes from yesterday, though they're rumpled now. His hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger. Softer. The morning light coming through the window catches the grey of his eyes, turning them almost silver.
He's beautiful.
The thought hits me sideways, inappropriate and undeniable.
