"You should be flattered that I don't."
I almost smile. "I'll take it."
The storm howls outside. The fire crackles. Madison yawns, and it's contagious—I feel the exhaustion of the day settling into my bones.
"We should sleep," I say.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"Same arrangement as last night?" she asks. "Except I don't want to wake up wrapped around you again. That was..."
"Awkward?"
"Mortifying."
"I've had worse wake-up calls."
"That's not comforting." But she's smiling. "Okay. Same arrangement. And if I start cuddling in my sleep—"
"I'll push you off the bed."
"Perfect. Boundaries established."
She slips under the covers, and I add another log to the fire before settling on top of the quilt with my own blanket.
The careful distance between us feels like a joke now. I can feel the warmth of her through the layers: the quilt, the sheets, whatever thin barrier is supposed to keep this platonic. She's maybe eight inches away. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something vanilla and warm that's been driving me slowly insane since last night.
She shifts, getting comfortable, and her foot brushes against my calf through the covers.
"Sorry," she says again.
"Stop apologizing."
"Stop being so close."
"You want me to sleep on the floor?"
"No." She says it quickly. Too quickly. Then, softer: "No. This is fine."
Fine. Right.
I stare at the ceiling and listen to her breathing. It's not steady. Not the slow, even rhythm of someone drifting off to sleep. She's awake. Aware. Just like I am.
"Jake?"
"Yeah."
"This is weird, right? This whole situation?"
"I suppose."
"I don't usually..." She trails off. "I don't usually feel comfortable with people this fast. It takes me a while to warm up."
"You seem plenty warm to me."
I mean the temperature. I do. But the words land differently in the dark, and I hear her breath catch.
