“Yeah,” I said. “Good thing.”
We lay there, backs turned, frustration humming between us—and still, maddeningly, I couldn’t stop noticing how close the pillow had crept to my side of the bed.
I woke to warmth.
Not the abstract kind. Not the lingering heat of blankets. Actual warmth.
My eyes opened slowly, disoriented, and it took a second to realize why my arm felt trapped.
Roxie was closer.
The pillow still existed, technically, but it had shifted sometime in the night, angled uselessly between us instead of forming a real barrier. Her shoulder brushed my chest, her arm bent near mine like she’d drifted without realizing it.
Her blonde curls fanned across the pillow, the faint scent of her shampoo filling the space between us.
She was asleep.
Peaceful. Unguarded. Nothing like the sharp-tongued woman I’d gone to bed arguing with.
I stayed completely still.
This had been happening more and more lately, the gradual erosion of space. An inch here. A careless shift there. Each morning, she woke a little closer, like her body didn’t remember the rules once she stopped policing them.
Anxiety surged through me.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That sleep blurred boundaries. That proximity was inevitable when you shared a bed long enough.
Still.
When she shifted slightly, her knee brushing mine this time, my breath caught.
I stared at the ceiling and waited for her to move away. But she didn’t.
And for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely, I didn’t pull away either.
I felt it before I heard it.
A shift of weight. A soft exhale.
Roxie stirred beside me, her forehead brushing my shoulder as she rolled closer, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking. Her arm slid across my chest like it belonged there, her hand settling just below my collarbone.
She let out a small sound, low and content. Relaxed. Happy.
My breath stalled.
Every muscle in my body went rigid while my brain short-circuited completely.
She nuzzled closer, cheek warm against my skin, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of my T-shirt like she was anchoring herself. The pillow, our so-called barrier, had fully surrendered, shoved down near our knees and forgotten.
This didn’t feel accidental anymore.
It felt comfortable.
I stared at the ceiling, heart hammering like I’d just dove off the block instead of waking up in my own bed. My instinct was to move. To create space. To make a joke. To do literally anything that didn’t involve acknowledging how good this felt.
But I didn’t.
For one suspended, dangerous moment, I let myself have it.
