Page 45

And that’s the most terrifying part of all.

So I stay.

Because if I’m going to do this—if I’m going to let myself cross the line I swore I never would—I at least need to know where we stand.

His breathing shifts.

The moment stretches, thick with anticipation, until I feel it—his arm tightening around me, the slow inhale, the way his fingers flex against my skin like he’s already realized I’m still here.

Then, his voice, still rough with sleep.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

I swallow hard, but I don’t pull away.

“We should talk,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

His hand drifts up my spine, slow and deliberate. “We should shower first.”

My stomach flips.

My throat goes dry.

His words settle in the thick, sleep-warmed air between us, and my brain completely short-circuits. Just … stops functioning entirely.

A second passes. Then another.

And all I can do is blink at the wall, my body still frozen against the firm, unyielding heat of his. His voice is rough, gravelly from sleep, but there’s something else beneath it. Something deliberate. A slow, simmering suggestion that slides over my skin like a touch, even though he hasn’t moved.

I open my mouth, then close it again.

My brain is sending out every emergency evacuation warning possible, screaming at me to get up, to leave, to create some kind of professional barrier before this spirals even further out of control.

And yet⁠—

His palm drags up my spine, the weight of his hand grounding, steady, like he already knows I’m about to run. Like he’s waiting to see if I will.

I exhale slowly, trying to regain some semblance of sanity. “Graham⁠—”

“Anastasia.” My name is low, almost teasing, the rasp of it settling somewhere deep in my chest. He’s awake now, fully, and I can feel it in every inch of him. His body pressed against mine, solid and immovable. The heat of him wrapping around me like a second skin.

I force myself to focus. To untangle the mess of emotions twisting tight inside me and find my footing.

“We need a plan,” I say finally, my voice firmer now. “If we’re doing this—” I pause, inhale. “If this happened, then we need to figure out what it means going forward. Because I can’t afford to⁠—”

His fingers skate up my ribs, stopping just beneath my arm, and my breath stutters. “To what?”

I close my eyes. “To let this ruin everything.”

A beat of silence.

Then, he moves.

Slow, steady, the way he always does. Rolling onto his back, dragging me with him like I belong there, tucked against his chest. Like he already knows I won’t fight him. And I should. God, I should. I should push away, sit up, put as much distance between us as possible.

But I don’t.

Because the worst part of this—the part I can’t even begin to admit to myself—is that I like being here. I like the weight of his arm draped over my waist. The steady, grounding press of his body against mine. The heat of him, the safety.