His hand on my wrist stops me.“X.It’s fine.”His voice is gentle, amused.“I’m not here to judge your housekeeping.”
I relax, feeling foolish for my sudden self-consciousness.“Right.Um, bathroom’s through there, if you need it.I have spare toothbrushes in the cabinet.”
His thumb traces small circles on the inside of my wrist, the simple touch sending shivers up my arm.“Thank you.”
We take turns in the bathroom, the domesticity of it both strange and oddly right.When I emerge in sleep pants and a worn t-shirt, I find him sitting on the edge of the bed, stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, hair loose around his shoulders.
My mouth goes dry.Even partially clothed, he is breathtaking.All lean muscle and tattooed skin.The bedside lamp casts shadows that emphasize the strong line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders.
“Which side do you prefer?”he asks, breaking me from my trance.
“Uh, left,” I manage, gesturing vaguely.“I usually sleep on the left.”
He nods, sliding to the right side of the bed.He moves with a fluid grace that belies his size, settling against the pillows like he belongs there.I switch off the main light, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp, before climbing in beside him.
We lay there for a moment, a careful few inches separating us, the air charged with awareness.Then he turns on his side, facing me, expression soft in the dim light.
“Come here,” he says quietly, lifting his arm in invitation.
I move into the space, fitting myself against his side, head resting on his shoulder.His arm comes around me, warm and secure, his hand settling on my waist.
“This okay?”he asks, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.
“More than okay,” I allow myself to relax into the embrace.The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear is soothing, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the air-conditioned room.
He reaches over to switch off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.In the shadows, with only the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, it is easier to be honest.
“I’ve never had this,” I admit softly.“Someone staying the night.Just to sleep.”
His arm tightens slightly around me.“Never?”
“No.”My fingers trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.“My shifts are crazy.Most guys don’t understand why I can’t text back for twelve hours or why I cancel plans at the last minute when there’s a trauma.”
He is quiet for a moment, his hand a comforting weight on my side.“I’m not most guys,” he finally replies, simple words weighted with promise.“Plus, I want to kill anyone that you’ve dated.”He says it so casually that I bust out laughing loudly.
He joins me, holding me tighter.I could get used to this.
“No,” I agree to his first statement, smiling against his shoulder.“You’re definitely not.”
The events of the day, the long shift, the emotional revelations, the physical intimacy, begin to catch up with me.My eyelids grow heavy, my thoughts blurring at the edges.
“Sleep,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It is that promise, more than anything, that allows me to finally let go, drifting into the deepest, most peaceful sleep I’ve had in years.
CHAPTERTHREE
Zach
The first raysof morning light filter through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across the bedroom.I’ve been awake for almost an hour, lying perfectly still to avoid disturbing Xavier’s sleep.In the soft dawn glow, I study him curled against my side, committing every feature to memory.
Xavier’s face looks younger in sleep, the perpetual tension around his eyes smoothed away.His dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, lips slightly parted with each slow breath.A faint bruise still marks his jaw from the bar fight, the sight of it stirring something fiercely protective in my chest.
Seven years.Seven fucking years of watching from a distance, and now here I am, in Xavier’s bed, his head nestled against my shoulder and one leg thrown carelessly over mine.The weight of him feels right, like something missing has finally clicked into place.
I lift my free hand, hesitating before allowing my fingers to hover just above Xavier’s cheek.I don’t touch, don’t want to wake him.Instead, I trace the air along the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the fullness of his lower lip.
A strand of dark hair has fallen across his forehead.This time I can’t resist.I brush it back with featherlight fingers, my chest tightening when Xavier sighs in his sleep and presses closer to my side.
