I slip under the covers and leave space between us.
He lies down on top of the blanket at first, rigid, like he’s bracing for impact.
“That’s not helping,” I whisper.
He turns his head toward me.
“You need to hold me.”
Silence stretches between us.
His eyes darken.
“Carly…”
“I won’t sleep otherwise.”
That part isn’t dramatic. It’s just true.
Another second passes. He exhales, lifts the edge of the blanket, and slides beneath it.
The mattress shifts.
“Turn around,” he says quietly.
I do.
The space between us feels too small to be safe.
His arm comes around my waist. Careful. Measured. Like he knows exactly how dangerous this is.
The moment his chest settles against my back, warmth spreads through me. Heat and muscle and steady breath at my neck.
He keeps his hips angled away. I feel that too. The restraint in it.
His hand rests against my stomach.
I become suddenly, painfully aware of myself. Of the softness there. Of the curve of my hips pressing back into him. Of the way my body isn’t small or sharp or easy to ignore.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I’ve never felt so conscious of being a curvy woman. Not like this. Not with a man who feels like steel and restraint wrapped around me.
He goes still. But he’s there.
And my body, traitorous and exhausted, melts into him like it recognizes the shape.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs.
I try.
I really try.
For a few minutes, it works.
Then the nightmares come back.
I jolt in his arms before I even know I’m awake.
