He hums, content and small. “I know.”
We sleep tangled together, limbs a mess, his head tucked beneath my chin. Every time I drift up from sleep, I find him still there, wrapped in my clothes, in my arms, and I don’t want to move—not for anything.
Not when I can fall asleep with my home wrapped up in my arms.
Noah
Iwakeuptangledin a mess of limbs and sheets, blinking slowly into the sun-warmed space of Damien’s room.
My cheek is pressed to his bare chest, breath ghosting over his sternum and nose nuzzling the soft hair there. One of his arms is draped possessively over my back, pinning me in place. For a long minute, I just listen to his heartbeat before I realize with a quiet sort of thrill that there’s nothing demanding my attention.
No alarm. No swim practice. No class. Nothing except Damien’s breathing and the distant, muffled chaos of Sin Bin boys waking up on a Saturday, probably already fighting over coffee.
The covers are heavy and warm, cocooning us together in that lazy space that belongs to mornings like this—rare and precious, a day with nowhere to be. I let myself enjoy it, feeling the weight of his arm, the scrape of his stubble when I nuzzle closer, the subtle flex of his muscles as he shifts in sleep.
I want to stay here all day. I want to bottle this feeling and keep it for when things get loud again, when I need a reminder that comfort can be this simple. I’m content to just stay still, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the security of being wrapped up in him, the way everything quiets when it’s just the two of us and nothing else.
Damien stirs, exhaling a huff of air that flutters the hair at my temple. His eyes are still closed, lashes tangled and dark against his cheekbones, but he’s awake. I know the difference by now.
“Good morning,” I say, voice still scratchy from sleep, but full of quiet amusement.
I feel him tighten his hold on me, pulling me in until there’s no space left between us, then groaning as he cracks one bleary eye open. He looks wrecked—hair wild, mouth swollen, pillow lines pressed into his cheek. He looks young, unguarded. He looks like mine.
Damien is looking at me as if I’m the most disruptive alarm clock ever invented. “Mmm. It can’t be morning. Too early. Not moving,” he mutters, dragging the sheets up higher and tucking them around us. “Besides, I had a little Smurf keeping me up all night. Should get to sleep in for once.”
I flush, cheeks prickling with heat, immediately catching on to what he meant. I nudge him in the ribs. “Smurf?Is that really what we’re going with? You’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. You said you liked the lace. And the jockstrap. And… everything else.”
Damien’s hand drifts down, tracing idle circles on my back, fingers slipping under the hem of his own shirt that I borrowed. “Oh, don’t play innocent,” he says, feigning exhaustion. “Little blue-haired Smurf shows up in my bed at three a.m. in lace and straps and—fuck, I didn’t stand a chance. I’m not responsible for my actions when ambushed like that.”
I let out a scandalized huff, poking him in the ribs. “Ambushed? You practically drooled on me. I had to wake you up. I should’ve filmed how long it took.”
He grins, all dimples and cocky self-satisfaction, but then his brow furrows, and he lets his head flop back against the pillow with an exaggerated sigh. “Truly tragic. A man can’t even get his beauty sleep in his own house…” He trails off, feigning another dramatic sigh. “You’re trouble, Blue. I’m filing a complaint. My legs still hurt.”
I laugh, snuggling closer just to be annoying, dragging my palm up his chest until my fingers play absently over the chain at his throat. “Fine. I won’t do it again. No more lace, no more straddling you at three in the morning, no more… anything.” I let the silence hang, playing up the offense. “You’ll just have to settle for boring, flannel-pajama Noah from now on.”
He gasps, rolling us so I’m trapped beneath him, staring up into his eyes, which are much more awake and mischievous than he’s pretending. “Don’t you dare. That’s cruel and unusual punishment. I’ll sue.”
I give him my best unimpressed look, chin tilting up. “Nope. If you don’t want me to go full flannel mode, you’ll have to apologize for calling me a Smurf. And for complaining about the lace. In fact, I think you should have to grovel. Beg a little. Maybe get on your knees.”
His mouth quirks up into a crooked grin. “Grovel, huh? You want me on my knees, Blue? You sure you can handle that?”
I swat his chest, blushing even harder, but I don’t back down. “You’re not getting out of this. I require a formal apology. I want you to mean it. I want regret, Damien Moore. Regret and repentance.”
He gives me a look of pure betrayal, grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head, leaning in so his hair brushes my forehead. I melt for it even as I try to keep a straight face.
“Alright. Fine. I’m sorry, Blue. I take it all back. You’re not a Smurf, you’re an angel, and the lace is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’d write a thousand apologies if it means you’ll keep wearing it just for me.”
I turn my face away with a dramatic sigh, refusing to look at him. “Not enough,” I insist, but my voice is wobbly, full of laughter I can’t quite suppress.
Damien groans, nuzzling into my neck, his stubble scratching my skin as he presses desperate, silly kisses along my jaw. “C’mon, Babygirl. I’m sorry, okay? You’re the bravest, hottest, most dangerously sexy man I’ve ever met. You could wake me up in the middle of a coma, and I’d thank you. Please, baby. Don’t take away my sexy privileges. I’ll die.”
I snort, shaking my head, but his mouth is at my neck now, hot and insistent, finding all the places that make me squirm. “Grovel harder,” I tease, even as my resolve is crumbling, my body arching into him. “I want to see some real suffering.”
“Please, Blue,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “Don’t take it away. Don’t take you away. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything. Just—let me have you. Let me see you. Lace, jockstrap, whatever you want. You’re so fucking beautiful, I’ll say it until you believe me.”
My heart clenches so hard it almost hurts. I try to look away, shy and overwhelmed by the intensity in his eyes, but he won’t let me. I let him pepper me with apologies and increasingly absurd promises—“I’ll do all your laundry for a month,” “I’ll let you pick the music in the car, even if it’s that weird sad indie stuff”—until I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
I squirm, trying to keep the giggle locked behind my teeth, but it slips out anyway, muffled by his neck as I give in and wrap my arms around his shoulders.
