That thought sits heavy in my chest.
I should get up.
Make coffee. Check the house. Make sure the mountain stayed quiet while we slept. Do something useful with my hands before they forget how to behave.
Carefully, I start to ease my arm free.
Her fingers close around my wrist before I get far.
I go still.
Her eyes stay closed. Her voice is rough with sleep when she murmurs, “Don’t go.”
That lands harder than it should.
I look at her.
Her cheek is still pressed into the pillow. Her hair is a mess. The collar of the shirt has slipped low on one shoulder, and her mouth is soft and half-parted, like she’s not all the way awake and doesn’t know how much damage she’s doing.
She tightens her fingers around my wrist again, like she means it.
“Ruby,” I say quietly.
This time her eyes blink open.
Slow. Heavy. Hazel gone soft around the edges with sleep.
For one second, she looks confused. Then she sees me. Feels where she is. Remembers.
And instead of panic, instead of that flash of fear I keep bracing for, her mouth curves a little.
Not quite a smile.
Something smaller than that.
Something worse.
“You were leaving,” she says.
“I was getting coffee.”
Her gaze drifts over my face, then lower, like she’s still waking up enough to take me in. “That sounds very noble of you.”
I let out a breath that almost counts as a laugh. “You say that like it’s suspicious.”
“It is suspicious,” she murmurs. “You look like a man who wakes up planning violence, not breakfast.”
That gets a real smile out of me, brief and sharp.
“Coffee first,” I tell her. “Violence later.”
Her fingers loosen, but only enough to slide up my forearm. Like she changed her mind about letting go and decided to do it with purpose this time.
“I like waking up with you here,” she says.
No hesitation. No teasing. Just the truth.
That’s the line that does me in.
