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He could do that? Put his leg over me? I lick my lips and try to think of something else, anything else. Then I realize I didn’t answer him. I clear my throat and roll my head toward him. “Yes.”

He shifts, and our eyes meet. And I can’t breathe. My breath is stuck in my lungs. Oh my god, am I going to die? I track his hand as he lifts it and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, and air comes rushing out of my chest.

A zing of awareness shoots down my spine. I like that. I liked when he put his fingers in my hair earlier, too.

“Is touching hair part of it?”

“Why do you enjoy it?”

My eyes dart between his, searching for the correct answer to that question. “Your fingers are rough,” I say instead.

A smile plays on his face, as though he’s not sure if he should smile or not. I think he should always smile.

“It’s nice.”

He does smile then, and he threads his fingers into my hair, dragging them through like a brush, and a shiver goes all the way down to my toes. I practically purr out loud, but thankfully, I stop it before it manifests. That would be really weird.

He does it again, and I can somehow feel it through my whole body. On the third pass, my glasses go crooked, and he reaches out, taking them off my face and folding them before reaching over me and placing them on my bedside table.

“Still good?” he asks, his fingers working magic in my hair.

I close my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. “Yes, really good.”

It’s the easiest yes I’ve said all week. I should be noting exactly what he’s doing so I can replicate it. But I don’t. I just enjoy his hands on me in a way I’ve never enjoyed anyone else's.

I shift out of instinct and lean against his side, my leg coming up to rest on top of his. He doesn’t stop me. He just threads his arm beneath me and tugs me closer, his other hand going into my hair instead.

I’m half on top of him. On my bed. I can hear his heart under my ear, a little fast, but mine is still faster. I should ask if this is still a lesson, but I’m afraid of the answer.

I fist the front of his shirt so I don’t float off the mattress, and I let him keep going. If this is cuddling, I understand why people like it. I could do this all the time…with him. My stomach dips at the realization. I keep my eyes closed anyway and soak it in.

I wake to a soft thudding beneath my ear and a dark room. For a second, I don’t know where I am. Then it comes rushing back. My bed. Daniel’s chest. My leg still thrown over his, actually now I’m laying half on top of him. One of his arms is heavy on my back. The other is trapped half under me, probably dead from lack of blood flow.

Oh no. I go rigid.

Daniel sucks in a breath as if he just woke up, too. “Hey.” His voice is gravely but quiet. “We fell asleep.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Neither of us moves. I should get off of him. I can feel him growing hard beneath my inner thigh. I don’t know which part to move first without making it worse. I know from experience that waking up with a hard-on is normal and does not mean that he actually wants me.

“I, um,” I peel my leg back. My knee drags across his body, and he makes a small sound and turns it into a cough.

“Sorry,” we say at the same time.

I push up on an elbow and almost put my hand on his stomach. Instead, I put it on the mattress between us. He slides his arm out from under me and flexes his fingers.

“What time is it?” he asks.

I fumble for my phone. The screen is blurry, but I can read the numbers well enough. “One-forty.”

“Crap. I have a scrimmage in the morning.” He sits up and drags his hand down his face. “I should—” He gestures at his own bed as though it has personally summoned him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” I repeat.

He shifts, careful not to touch me again and stands up. His shirt is creased and has a drool mark from my mouth. His hair is flattened on one side. He lifts his eyes to mine, then drops them to the floor, then he looks at his bed.

“That was—” He stops and rubs the back of his neck. “Sleep. We should sleep. Separate. That’s—yeah.”