He doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough.
“You don’t have to touch me,” I say quietly. “Just... lie down. Please. It’s worse when you’re far away.”
He goes very still, standing at the edge of the bed. For a long moment, I think I’ve pushed too far, asked for too much. Then he moves—careful, deliberate—lowering himself beside me on top of the covers. His body is a line of heat next to mine, nottouching but close enough that I can feel him breathing. Close enough that his scent wraps around me.
He keeps his boots on. I almost smile at that. Dane, prepared for anything, even in bed.
“Better?” he asks, voice low.
The restless energy under my skin calms with him here. Like his presence grounds me in a way I don’t understand and don’t want to examine too closely.
“Yes,” I say. Because it’s true.
I close my eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing anchor me. Sleep pulls at my edges, and this time, I let it take me.
Morning light filters through the window, pale and gray.
I surface slowly, awareness returning in layers. Warmth first—so much warmth, surrounding me like a cocoon. Then weight. An arm draped across my waist, heavy and possessive. A chest pressed against my back, rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The scratch of stubble against my shoulder where his face is tucked into the curve of my neck.
My heart stutters.
At some point in the night, he pulled me close. At some point, the careful distance collapsed. His body curves around mine now, one leg tangled with mine, his arm tight across my stomach like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. The stillness feels too precious to break.
His hand is splayed across my belly, fingers spread wide. Through the thin fabric of my shirt, I can feel the heat of his palm, the rough calluses on his fingertips. Each slow breath he takes presses his chest more firmly against my back.
I turn carefully, mindful of my aching muscles, and freeze.
He’s asleep. Actually asleep.
His shirt is gone—discarded at some point in the night. The morning light catches the scars mapping his chest and shoulders, silver lines against bronze skin telling stories of battles I don’t know. His face has softened in sleep, the perpetual tension in his jaw released, the furrow between his brows smoothed away. His lashes are darker than I expected, long against his cheeks.
I’ve never seen him like this. Guard down. Defenses lowered.Vulnerable.
Something dangerous twists in my chest. Something that feels too much like longing.
I let my gaze trace the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle across his abdomen. The scars—so many scars. A thick one curves around his ribs. Another slashes across his collarbone. Evidence of a life spent fighting, protecting, bleeding for others.
My fingers itch to touch. To trace those silver lines and learn their stories.
His eyes open.
No drowsy transition. No confusion. Just Dane, instantly alert, steel-gray eyes locked on mine. Watching me watch him.
“You’re staring,” he says, voice rough with sleep. The sound of it—low, graveled—does something to my insides.
“You’re shirtless.”
“It’s my bed.”
“Fair point.”
Neither of us moves to create distance. His arm is still around my waist, my body still pressed against his. I can feel his heartbeat against my palm where my hand rests on his chest. Steady. Strong. Faster than it should be.
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. I should move. Go back to my cabin. Rebuild the walls between us.
I don’t.
