The mattress dips slightly as I settle in, and I become hyperaware of how close we are. When I turn onto my side to face him, I catch him looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel warm.
His eyes travel from my face down to my chest, where it's obvious he's noticed I'm wearing one of his T-shirts. “You look good in my clothes,” he says quietly.
“It's soft,” I manage, though my heart is beating faster now.
“Thanks again for tonight,” he says, his voice softer in the dim light. “Your mom seemed to have a good time.”
“She loved every second of it. You're officially her favorite person.” I smile. “Thank you for being so good to her. I know she can be a lot.”
“She's not a lot. She just loves you.”
We're facing each other, less than two feet apart, and the space between us feels charged with possibility. Every time he shifts, I catch another glimpse of his bare chest. Every time I move, his eyes seem to track the movement like he can't help himself.
“We should probably get some sleep,” I whisper, though I make no move to turn away.
“Probably,” he agrees, but his gaze drops to my lips for just a moment before meeting my eyes again.
Neither of us makes a move, and I think we both realize this is a dangerous temptation.
Finally, we each reach for our respective bedside lamps, and the room plunges into darkness as we click them off. I roll onto my other side, facing away from him, and pull the covers up to my chin, and I hear him do the same on his side of the bed. Now we're lying back to back in the dark, both of us perfectly still as we pretend this is perfectly normal.
But as I listen to his breathing gradually slow and deepen, I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us, of how right it feels to have him beside me, of how much I want to close that distance.
It's the most peaceful I've felt in weeks, and I drift off to the sound of his steady breathing.
When I wake, the light from outside is spilling through the blinds.
And Brandon is holding me.
I'm on my side, facing him, and his arms are around my waist, pulling me close. Every inch of him is pressed against me. His chest, his hips, his thighs—all heat and muscle and sleep-warmed skin.
I should move. I should extract myself and go get ready for the day.
But I don't.
His body is solid beside me, grounding. And after everything that's happened this week between us, I can't bring myself to leave.
Then I feel it.
A slow, deliberate stroke of his thumb across my lower back. Barely there. But unmistakably real.
My heart lurches.
I stay still, eyes closed, breath held, like if I don't move, I won't shatter whatever spell this is. His breathing is shallow now, more conscious, and I know he's awake.
His thumb keeps moving in lazy circles, warmer now, bolder. I feel myself softening, melting into it, with the edges of my body blurring where his meets mine.
Then I feel his breath against my cheek.
And then his lips.
It's gentle at first. Careful. His mouth brushes mine like a question, and when I don't pull away—when I tilt forward instead—the kiss deepens, turning greedy, as our willpower unravels in one slide of lips and tongue.
He kisses me like I belong to him.
And I kiss him back like he's mine, too. This feels instinctive. Natural. Like I was always supposed to end up right here.
I shift carefully, sliding more on top of him. My thigh slips between his legs, and the sound he makes—a low, ragged groan—rattles through me like thunder.
