Like the world didn’t crack open last night. Like he didn’t see the worst parts and decide to stay close enough to make plans around them.
He leans down and kisses me once, slow and sleepy and not nearly long enough for my personal standards. I make a small sound when he pulls back, which is humiliating because I am supposed to be a woman of mystery and emotional restraint, not a touch-starved raccoon in tiny sleep shorts.
“Text me when you’re up,” he says.
“Demanding.”
“Text me.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Bliss.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. I’ll text my situationship warden.”
His eyes sharpen just enough that I feel the shift before he says anything.
There it is.
Tiny. Fast.
But I see it.
I see the way his jaw sets at the word. The way his gaze drops from mine for half a second before coming back harder. He hates it. Not because he’s insecure. Cade Mercer wouldn’t know insecurity if it walked into a room wearing his jersey and asked for validation. He hates it because we both know it is bullshit now.
Friends with benefits.
Situationship.
Whatever tiny cowardly label I keep trying to tape over this enormous thing between us.
It doesn’t fit and honestly, it probably never did.
“What?” I ask, because apparently I enjoy psychological danger before breakfast.
His hand slides from my hip to my waist beneath the blanket, and he leans closer until his forearm braces beside my head. His body covers just enough of mine to make my thoughts scatter in every direction, but his face stays calm. Focused. Cade.
“We both know this is deeper than benefits,” he says quietly.
My throat goes tight.
Oh no.
Absolutely not.
Direct Cade before sunrise should require a permit.
“Cade—”
“I’m not making you slap a label on anything before you’re ready.” His eyes hold mine, steady and too blue in the dark. “I know you have hang-ups.”
My mouth falls open. “Hang-ups?”
“Several.”
“That is so rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
