We’re both quiet after that. The city hums outside. Rain starts, light and rhythmic against the windows.
I close my eyes, and sleep pulls me under.
Hours later, I wake to warmth.
But I’m not wrapped up in blankets and pillows. The warmth is coming from Silas. His arm is around my waist, my back pressed against his chest, his breathing slow and even against my neck.
I’m on his side of the bed. Or he’s on mine. I don’t remember moving.
I should pull away and pretend this didn’t happen. I don’t.
His arm tightens slightly, and his breathing changes. He’s awake.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
I feel his chest rise and fall. The weight of his arm around my waist. The heat of him against my back, my legs, and everywhere we’re touching.
His thumb moves in small circles against my hip bone through the thin cotton of my pajamas.
Everything inside me tightens, and I inhale sharply. Involuntarily, of course.
He heard it. His hand goes still for half a second before his fingers spread wider across my stomach.
I feel his warm exhale against my neck. I’m not imagining this.
But neither of us acknowledges what’s happening.
His lips press against my hair. Not quite a kiss. Just warmth and pressure and the exhale that comes after.
I wait for him to pull away. He doesn’t. His arm tightens, pulling me closer, and I let him.
This is a mistake. But I don’t move, and neither does he, and eventually, sleep drags us both back under.
Morning light wakes me the second time. I’m on my side of the bed. Silas is on his.
The space between us is back, and I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Except I can still feel where his arm was, and where his breath touched my neck.
Silas stirs, opens his eyes, and focuses on me. “Good morning.”
I blink, still waking up. “Good morning.”
He sits up, and then we get ready in silence. I don’t know if I am upset or grateful that we’re both choosing to ignore what happened last night.
When we meet Richard for breakfast, Silas’s hand finds the small of my back, and I lean into him like it’s natural.
And maybe it is.
CHAPTER 7
Callum
She’s been living here for a month, and I still feel her hips against mine from our night at the club every time I close my eyes.
I’m handling it. Barely. And the way I’m handling it consists of more showers with my hand wrapped around my dick than I’ve had since high school.
But even that isn’t really helping. I want her more every day.
I find her in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book. Red hair falling over her shoulder. Bare feet tucked under her.
