Thoughts rattle around my brain—an internal chant with no off button. Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.
She’s vulnerable, my conscience reminds me.
“Sleep, Honeybee,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
Her hand presses to my heart. “Promise?”
“Always.”
I waketo sunlight streaming through cheap curtains and Clover’s head approximately three inches from mine.
It’s the best fucking morning of my life.
Especially because somehow, throughout the night, we migrated even closer to each other. Now, she’s using my bicep as a pillow. She’s on her back, spread out like a starfish, one leg thrown over mine, her other hanging off the edge of the bed, and she has one hand fisted in my shirt as though she likes being tethered to me. Lifting my head, I wince at the contorted position of her dangling leg.
She’s still trying to plant one foot on the floor, and it looks uncomfortable as fuck.
I should move. I should give her space. She makes a small sound and burrows her face closer.
Fuck space.
I tighten my arm around her middle and allow myself to have this. Just for a few more minutes.
Her hair smells like cheap motel shampoo but is still as soft as ever. Her breathing is soft and even. The weight of her in my arms feels like the prayer I forgot to say.
She shifts, her leg that’s resting between mine inching higher, and I feel the exact moment she wakes up. The way her body tenses slightly, pressing her thigh against my groin. The way her breathing picks up.
“Hi,” I say quietly. Waking up this way is probably enough of a shock for her.
“Hi.” Her voice is rough from sleep and sexy as hell. “Sorry, I’m not normally a cuddler.”
“I’m not complaining,” I say. Though now I’m having murderous thoughts about faceless assholes sleeping next to my Honeybee.
She lifts her head slightly. Even with bedhead and puffy eyes, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“We should probably?—”
“Get up,” I grunt. “Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
“Valen?”
“Hmm?”
“About last night?—”
My stomach drops. Here it comes. The regret speech.
“Yeah?” That hurt my throat.
“I don’t— I’m not good at this. At…” She gestures vaguely between us as she rolls into me. “Whatever this is. And I know the timing is awful, and I’m probably going to have panic attacks about it later, but—” She sucks in air through her teeth, and it makes a hissing sound. “I don’t regret it. The kiss. Any of it.”
Relief crashes through me as though I’m standing on the brink of a natural disaster that diverted at the last moment.
“Good,” I sigh. “I don’t either.”
“Even though I’m a mess?”
