He sees me watching and stops.
We stare at each other.
I should say something. Apologize? Thank him? Suggest we never speak of it again and maintain a strictly professional fake-relationship dynamic for the remaining forty-eight hours of wedding hell?
Instead I pull the covers over my head completely and pray for a sinkhole to open beneath the Lover's Loft.
I hear him move across the room. Feel the change in air pressure as he approaches the bed. The mattress doesn't dip under his weight, which means he's standing there, looming, probably deciding whether to address the elephant in the room or pretend I don't exist.
"Colletta."
His voice is calm, neutral, like he didn't have his face buried between my thighs eight hours ago.
I don't move.
"I can see you breathing," he says, and there's a hint of something in his tone that might be amusing. "The blanket moves."
Damn it.
I lower the duvet just enough to peer at him with one eye again. "I'm not here. This is a pillow that learned to breathe. It's a medical miracle."
He's dressed now. Black pants, black shirt that clings to his frame like it's afraid to leave any detail to the imagination. His hair is still damp, the single braid down his back dripping onto the floor. He's holding two small cups.
"Coffee," he says, extending one toward me. "And aspirin."
I emerge from my cocoon slowly, like a butterfly except significantly less graceful and infinitely more hungover. The coffee cup is hilariously tiny in his massive hand. I take it carefully, our fingers brushing, and try not to think about where those fingers were last night.
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice still hoarse.
He hands me two white pills and I swallow them dry before taking a sip of coffee. It's black, strong enough to wake the dead, exactly what I need.
We sit in silence.
He settles onto the bed, not touching me, giving me space. His posture is relaxed but alert, like he's ready to spring into action if the bedside lamp attacks.
"About last night," I start, staring into the coffee cup like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"You were drunk," he says simply. "I should not have?—"
"I wasn't that drunk." The words come out sharper than I intend. I look up, meet his eyes. They're dark green, flecked with gold, unreadable. "I mean, I was drunk. But not so drunk I didn't know what I was doing."
His jaw tightens. "The contract?—"
"Fuck the contract." I'm surprised by my own vehemence. "I mean, not literally. Or maybe literally? I don't know. I just..." I trail off, loss for words that don't make me sound like a complete disaster.
Which I am. But still.
He watches me, waiting, patient as stone.
"I don't regret it," I finally say, quiet but firm. "If that's what you're worried about."
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite relief, but close. The tension in his shoulders eases fractionally.
"Good," he rumbles. "Neither do I."
The air between us feels charged, heavy with everything we're not saying. I take another sip of coffee and try to remember how to be a functional human being.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I lunge for it, grateful for the distraction, and immediately regret the sudden movement as my head protests violently.
