She set her laptop to the side. “Just don’t snore.”
I grabbed a pillow and dropped it on the far side of the bed like it was a line in the sand. “Don’t cross this.”
“Relax, Kieren. I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me.”
I climbed into bed and flipped off the last light.
“Good,” I muttered.
Then I heard her whisper, just soft enough to curl under my skin: “—but I bet you’d dream about it.”
I stared at the ceiling.
This night was going to suck.
Daphne was already moving past me, a toothbrush in hand, legs bare beneath an oversized shirt that hit mid-thigh. The kind of shirt that looked like it belonged to some guy she used to date. Or maybe it was just one of those soft, lived-in ones women stole from college roommates and never gave back. Either way, I clocked it. Filed it away. Pretended I didn’t.
She disappeared into the bathroom; the door left cracked just enough for light and sound to spill out. I heard the water run, the soft clink of her brushing. Then humming.
Some quiet melody I didn’t recognize. Soft. Comforting. Not even a real song—just sound, like she didn’t realize she was doing it.
I ran a hand down my face and sat on the edge of the bed.
This was fine.
We were adults. This was just logistics. One room, one bed. We’d survive.
I slid under the covers even further, back stiff, every muscle locked up like I was expecting a bomb to go off.
She came out a minute later, flicked off the bathroom light, and padded to her side. Climbed in like it was nothing. Like we hadn’t been dancing around each other for weeks. Like she didn’t smell like mint and warm skin and just enough lavender to make me consider therapy.
I turned off the bedside lamp.
Darkness settled, but the room didn’t feel still.
It buzzed. Like static. Like every unspoken word between us was vibrating in the air. My jaw ached from how tight I was clenching it.
Silence stretched long.
Then—
“If you’re gonna stare at the ceiling all night,” she whispered, “at least pretend to relax.”
“If I fall asleep, you might kill me in my sleep.”
“Too much paperwork.”
That made me snort—quiet, involuntary.
Then she laughed. Low and warm. The kind that hit right in the chest and lingered.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, I rolled onto my side, still keeping a healthy two feet of bed between us. Eyes open, staring into the dark.
Eventually, her breathing slowed. Steadied. Sleep pulled her under.
