His voice is rough with sleep. Low. Warm. Right against my ear.
I freeze.
“I’m not staring,” I say automatically.
A pause.
“Liar,” Colby murmurs.
I exhale slowly and shift beneath the covers, the sheet whispering against my skin. His arm tightens around my waist, heavy and careless in the way only someone fully relaxed can manage. Like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. Or who he’s doing it with.
That’s the problem.
This is dangerous.
Not because of the sex.
Because it feels safe.
I stare at the pale slice of morning light cutting across his bedroom wall. Everything is quiet. No phones buzzing. No alarms. No pressure. Just the slow rise and fall of his chest behind me.
I shouldn’t still be here.
I shouldn’t like how easily my body fits against his.
I shouldn’t feel… settled.
“Relax,” he says softly, thumb brushing my hip like it’s unconscious. “I’m not kicking you out.”
“That’s not what I was thinking,” I say.
“Mmhmm.”
I roll my head back slightly. “You don’t know what I was thinking.”
He hums. “I know that face. It’s the same one you made when Dex started singing like he was auditioning for American Idol.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
“That was not singing,” I say. “That was a cry for help.”
He smiles into my hair. I can feel it. “You handled it like a pro.”
“I shut him down in under ten seconds.”
“You did,” he agrees. “The entire table looked impressed. Slightly afraid, too.”
“Good.” I pause. “As they should.”
He chuckles, warm breath ghosting my neck.
The easy humor lingers. Soft. Comfortable.
That’s what gets me.
This doesn’t feel like the morning after a hookup.
It feels like waking up with someone.
