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He glares like he doesn’t agree with me but isn’t going to make it a thing.

The light clicks off, and darkness swallows the space between us.

I crawl under the blanket, muscles still twitching with residual tension my body has decided it would not like to release.

“Lila,” he says after a minute, not a question this time. Just my name, rough enough to make me look toward the sound of his voice in the dark. He sounds almost as wrung out as I feel.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to hold your breath around me.” It’s simple. Soft. Unfairly disarming.

I swallow hard, and when I exhale, the sound gives me away.

I was definitely holding my breath.

This day has just been so much. It feels like a week has passed with all the things we’ve discovered.

I pull the blanket tighter around myself.

Maybe I should pull out my phone and put on a podcast now. Focus on someone else’s murder problems.

I curl onto my side and wedge my hands between my knees, trying to trap some warmth, but my fingers stay numb and useless. I know I should sleep. I need to sleep. But my body isn’t listening. It’s stuck in this wired, restless limbo.

It’s always like this. Most nights, anyway. Restless, longing, something unsettled inside me that no amount of exhaustion short of total body shutdown can override.

It’s worse when the day has been too loud, too full of things that poke at the raw parts of me. Today was one of those days.

And it’s worse because I’m not alone, and there’s nowhere I can hide from Theo’s too-perceptive eyes.

He’s right there on the other side of the bed. Too far to touch, but close enough to make my emotions feel like a living, breathing thing. Palpable. Obvious.

I shift, trying to get comfortable, but the bed feels too big, too empty, too full, too much. I swear I can hear my own heartbeat, steady, stubborn, sad.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself it’s fine. I’m used to this. It’s not a big deal.

Just pretend his aggressive attention to detail doesn’t notice you’re three seconds from imploding.

Pretend you’re alone, pretend he isn’t there, and that you don’t want to be held by him because it might fix this for once, even if temporarily. Great. Fantastic. Losing it completely.

But my body isn’t buying it. It’s restless and uncooperative, apparently convinced that wanting things I can’t have is a full-time job. A touch that isn’t coming. Warmth that hasn’t existed since Laurel.

I exhale, sharp and shallow, and yank the blanket higher over my shoulders, stretch my leg out, slow and aimless. My foot slides against his calf. A touch of skin so light I can almost pretend it didn’t happen.

I wait for sleep to kick in. For my brain to stop chasing its own tail. For something, anything, resembling peace.

The mattress shifts, the unmistakable weight of him turning toward me.

His knee slots neatly into the crook of mine, a point of contact so steady it feels deliberate.

I don’t move. Don’t turn my head to look at him.

One second passes. Then another.

I’m just about to say something reckless rather than sit in this anxiety-ridden in-between when the bed dips again and Theo’s big hand wraps around my middle, pulling my body flush against his.

“What are you doing?” Panic swells inside me, mixed with something warmer, hungrier. Because whatever I expected, it wasn’t this.

“Making poor decisions,” he says, the words come out hoarse. “You’re welcome to stop me.”