"It's fine. It's your bed."
He slides under the covers, careful to keep distance between us. The mattress dips with his weight. I'm hyperaware of him there—the sound of his breathing, the heat from his body, the fact that we're in bed together despite all the reasons this is complicated.
"Goodnight, Gwen."
"Goodnight, Thatcher."
I close my eyes. Try to sleep. Fail spectacularly because he's right there and I can hear him breathing and feel the weight of him on the mattress.
This was a terrible idea.
Hours pass. I drift in and out of restless sleep. The unfamiliar bed, the unfamiliar sounds, Thatcher's presence—all of it keeps me from settling.
I need water, and realize he is no longer in bed beside me. I pad down the hallway in bare feet and sleep clothes, the house quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator.
Thatcher is already in the kitchen, filling a glass at the sink. He's shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He must have removed the t-shirt. Muscle and scar tissue mark his torso—combat zones, close calls, narrow escapes.
He turns when he hears me, and we both freeze.
Dim light from the stove hood casts shadows across his face, highlights the hard planes of his shoulders and chest. A few feet of kitchen tile stretch between us.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is rough, low.
"Thirsty."
He fills another glass and holds it out. I cross to take it, and when my fingers close around the glass, his hand is still there. His skin is warm. Hazel eyes hold mine in the half-light.
Neither of us moves. My pulse kicks up, loud enough I wonder if he can hear it. I'm aware of how close we're standing, how little space separates us. The refrigerator hum fills the quiet.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
"This would be easier if I didn't want you so damn much."
My breath catches. I set the glass on the counter before I drop it. "Who says I want easy?"
I wait. My heart pounds. I want him to close the distance, to find out if he kisses the way he fights—with complete focus and no hesitation.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing my jaw. The touch is light, tentative, lasting only a moment before he pulls back.
"Gwen." His voice is raw.
"Thatcher." I step closer. "Stop pulling away."
"You know why I have to."
"Because of the protective detail? Because I'm vulnerable?" I shake my head. "We covered this. I'm not fragile. I'm not making emotional decisions. I'm standing here telling you I want this."
"You're also standing here because someone wants you dead. My job is to keep you safe, not?—"
"Not what? Not care about me? Not want me?" I close the remaining distance. "Too late for that."
His jaw tightens. "If I get distracted, if I'm thinking about you instead of watching for threats?—"
"Then we're both in trouble anyway." I reach up, touch his face. Feel the rough stubble under my palm. "You're already distracted. Pulling away isn't fixing that."
"Gwen—"
"You told me last night you were interested. You meant it?"
