I woke up to the sound of Étienne breathing, deep and even.
Not the quiet, distant sound of someone sleeping on another couch or in another room, but wrapped around me. His body heat radiated against mine. The faint woodsy scent of his shampoo filled my lungs. I could reach out and run my fingers through his hair if I wanted to.
And I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
We’d fallen asleep on the couch again last night. Legs tangled together, his arm around me, his head on my chest. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like we’d been doing this for years instead of days.
It had been two days since we’d first kissed. Stopped hiding from each other. Since everything had changed.
Seventeen years I’d been carrying this secret.
And in two days, Étienne had figured out he was bisexual, confessed his feelings, and turned my entire world inside out.
The asymmetry of it terrified me.
What if this was just a novelty? What if the newness wore off, and he realized this wasn’t what he wanted? What if he woke up one day and decided that being with a man—being with me—was too complicated, too risky, too different from what he’d always known?
I’d survived years of hiding by never letting myself hope for more. By accepting that wanting men meant wanting in secret, in ways I could never act on.
And now I had more than I’d ever imagined possible.
Which meant I had so much more to lose.
Étienne stirred beside me, his arm tightening around my waist. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then found mine. A smile spread across his face—sleepy and genuine and so beautiful it made my chest hurt.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Morning.”
“What time is it?”
I reached for my phone on the coffee table. “Almost eight.”
“We should probably move to an actual bed at some point.” He stretched, careful not to jostle my foot. “Your couch is comfortable, but I’m getting too old to sleep on it every night.”
The casual assumption that we’d keep sleeping together made warmth bloom in my chest. But it also brought up the question I’d been avoiding.
“My bed,” I said carefully. “Upstairs. Would you… I mean, if you wanted to…”
He propped himself up on one elbow and peered down at me. “Are you asking me to sleep in your bed?”
“Yes. If you want to. No pressure. I just—” I was fumbling this. “The couch was fine when we were justfriends. But now I want… I’d like you to sleep with me. In my actual bed. If that’s okay.”
His smile widened. “I’d like that too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He leaned down and kissed me, soft and slow. “I was hoping you’d ask. Didn’t want to assume.”
Relief flooded through me. “So tonight?—”
“Tonight, I’ll sleep in your bed. With you.” He kissed me again. “This is going to be a problem, though.”
“What is?”
“Keeping my hands off you when we’re in an actual bed together.” His voice had gone rough, and heat pooled in my groin.
