Her eyelashes fluttered once.
Then again.
She didn’t open her eyes right away. Instead, she shifted her head, nose brushing my shirt, inhaling like she was trying to place the scent before the memory caught up, just like I did. Her hand tightened briefly in my T-shirt, then relaxed.
“Mm,” she murmured, voice rough and unfocused.
I smiled to myself and kept my voice low, careful. “Hey.”
That earned me a huff of breath against my chest. “Why do you sound… close?” she asked, still not opening her eyes.
“Because I am,” I said.
She stilled at that. But she didn’t seem tense—just pausing, like she was orienting herself. Her fingers flexed again in my shirt, more deliberately this time.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Her eyes opened slowly, lashes lifting in stages. For a second, she stared at my collarbone, then my throat, like her vision hadn’t quite caught up with her thoughts yet. When her gaze finally reached my face, recognition flickered there—warm, unalarmed.
“Hi,” she said.
I smiled. “Hi.”
She didn’t move away. If anything, she settled more fully into me, her cheek fitting against my chest like it had found its place overnight. Her thumb brushed absently over my shirt, a sleepy, unconscious motion.
“This is… not my bed,” she said after a moment.
“No,” I agreed. “But it’s a solid couch.”
That coaxed a faint smile out of her. “We fell asleep.”
“Hard,” I said. “At least you did.” I left out the part where I watched her sleep, mostly because I was aware enough that I’d look like a serial killer.
“So you just watched me sleep, like some kind of serial killer?”
Well, shit.
I chuckled, rubbing my jaw, trying not to jostle her much so she wouldn’t look at the fresh wave of heat slapping my cheeks. “In my defense, you were using me as a mattress, or pillow. Either way.”
She made a quiet noise that sounded like a laugh. “Well feel free to wake me next time instead of being a creep.”
I exhaled through my nose, smiling at that.
I started to wonder what she’d do next because she hadn’t pushed away from me, yet. If she’d pull back. If she’d decide this was a line she didn’t want crossed again, that whatever had happened between us belonged firmly in the past tense.
This… thing between us could vanish that easily. Like it had never happened.
I wasn’t usually a nervous guy. Confidence came easily to me, maybe too easily. But Teddy had a way of getting under my skin, of making me care about the outcome in a way that left me exposed. I wanted her badly—wanted more than the night with her, and the not knowing sat heavy in my chest.
I kept my arm where it was, loose, giving her room without pulling away. Letting her decide.
After a beat, she shifted again, lifting her head just enough to look at me. “What time is it?”
I pulled my other arm up, checking my watch. “It’s after midnight.”
She hummed. “Do you want to go back to your place?”
No, I didn’t. I met her gaze. “I can,” I said, “if you want the bed to yourself.”
