"Just you, fridge slayer."
"Then I'm not sleepin' on the couch."
My head whips toward him. "Excuse me?"
He crosses the room in two steps. “I meant the floor.”
“Sure you did.”
We stand there. Him, impossibly close. Me, stubbornly frozen.
Then the thunder cracks so loud it rattles my fake glassware.
I flinch.
Not because I’m scared. But because everything’s too damnmuchall of a sudden.
Troka mutters, “Come here.”
I don’t move.
He doesn’t ask again.
Just spreads the blanket across the couch and lies down. One arm stretched out. Waiting.
“Alaina.”
“Don’t.”
“Comehere.”
I slide in beside him because I'm weak. Or maybe just tired.
Or maybe just done pretending that his warmth doesn’t make the world feel like it’s not ending.
We’re not touching. Not at first.
Just sharing space. Breath. Heat.
Then his fingers brush mine.
Slow. Intentional.
I turn my head. His eyes—god, those eyes—catch the glowlamp and gleam like twin stars.
“You always this hot?” I murmur, trying to keep the air between us light.
“Only when you’re next to me.”
He says it like a joke.
But it lands like a vow.
I suck in a shaky breath.
His hand cups my jaw—rough, warm, grounding.
“You wanna stop this,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my cheek, “you gotta say it. Right now.”
