“Daisy,” I whisper.
The scratching becomes more insistent.
I throw back the covers and walk across the room, pulling the door open just enough for her to wedge her nose through.
“You have a bed,” I murmur. “A very nice bed.”
She looks up at me like I am the unreasonable one.
She trots into the hallway.
And immediately turns toward Gabriel’s room.
Of course she does.
“Traitor,” I whisper.
I follow her, barefoot on cool hardwood, soft cotton pajama pants and an old college sweatshirt hanging loose on me. She plants herself outside his door and starts scratching like she’s filing a complaint.
“Daisy, no,” I whisper, trying to pull her back by the collar. “You have your own bed.”
Scratch. Scratch.
The door opens before I can stop her.
Gabriel stands there in gray sweatpants and a worn black T-shirt, hair messy, eyes clearer than I expected. Even half-awake, he looks unfairly good, the kind of good that makes it very hard to remember I’m here to wrangle a dog and not stare at my husband.
Daisy barrels past me and straight into his room.
He looks down at her, then at me.
“Well,” he says dryly, “I guess we know who she wants to sleep with.”
Heat floods my face. “I’m so sorry. Did she wake you?”
He shakes his head. “I was up.”
“You too?”
He nods once. “Couldn’t shut my brain off.”
“Same.”
Daisy circles his rug like she’s chosen territory and collapses with a satisfied grunt.
He glances between the dog and me. “We could stand here pretending we’re asleep,” he says quietly, “or we could go downstairs and make hot chocolate like functioning adults.”
That shouldn’t sound as intimate as it does.
“Hot chocolate,” I repeat.
He steps aside, gesturing toward the stairs. “After you.”
“You can’t sleep,” he says.
“You either.”
He shrugs once. “The house feels different.”
