I lower my gaze.
I am.
Naked. In Jaxon’s bed.
My breath catches. My brain short-circuits. My hands fumble uselessly for the sheets, as if my fingers forgot how to work.
Then—mercifully—he moves, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it up, shielding me from his view. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice rough.
Sorry? For what? For looking? For not looking? For existing? My brain refuses to process.
Maybe he’s sorry because the naked sight of me was horrible for him? Did I scar him for life? Or dear Lord was it not horrible, and that’s the problem?
I need coffee. Immediately. A gallon.
“What… how… how did you…?” I finally manage, gesturing weakly between us, because words are a thing I apparently can’t do before caffeine, or during naked emergencies.
He runs a hand over his face, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know,” he groans. “I got up in the night to get a drink, and I must’ve just… come back in here. Autopilot. Total accident. I swear I didn’t mean to crawl in here, Rowyn.”
“Autopilot,” I repeat slowly. My brain is still catching up. “Right. Because sleepwalking into someone else’s bed half-naked happens all the time.”
“I’m serious,” he says, voice muffled against the pillow. “You have to believe me.”
And the thing is—I do. Completely. Because if Jaxon had meant to crawl in here, I’d probably still be dreaming.
“I believe you,” I say softly. “It’s fine. Easy mistake.”
He exhales, relieved, and rolls away from me. Unfortunately, that means I now have a perfect view of his very cute, very bare backside.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
My brain screams at me to look away. My eyes… do not listen.
“I got hot through the night,” I mumble, clutching the blanket tighter. “That’s why I, uh…” I gesture vaguely to my current state of undress. “Not that I was doing anything inappropriate, in your bed.”
What the ever-loving hell am I saying?
“Hot, yeah,” He gulps. “Makes sense.”
“Did you… are you…” I can’t even finish the question.
“Naked?” he supplies, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”
Oh God.
He shifts, still facing away, his voice rough when he says, “So, uh… should we… I don’t know… move? Or?—”
“Yeah,” I blurt. “Move. Definitely move.”
Neither of us do and I can’t freaking help but want to know what was going to come after ‘Or’.
For a long, suspended moment, we just… stay there.
Him, half-buried in his pillow. Me, wrapped in his sheets. The morning light spilling through the curtains, catching on the flames in the fireplace. The air between us feels thick, charged, like we both know something’s changed, even if we can’t say what.
He finally lets out a shaky laugh. “Well… this isn’t awkward at all.”