I slipped under the blanket carefully, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. I turned my back to him on instinct, creating space that barely existed. My upper back was inches from his chest. Too close. Way too close.
The bed dipped and settled. Heat bloomed under the covers immediately. I stared at the wall and told myself to sleep.
It didn’t work.
Every sound he made registered in my body like a pulse. The quiet hitch of his breath, the faint rustle of fabric when he shifted his arm, and the warmth at my back that felt like a touch.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Don’t be an idiot.
I tried to think about Stats. I pictured the worksheet. The stupid bell curve. The way Bennet bit his pen absent-mindedly when I was trying to explain how I got my results.
That didn’t help at all, because now I was thinking about Bennet. About Bennet with a pen between his lips.
About the way he’d looked sitting on my bed earlier, elbow on the pillow, head tilted in his hand like he was at home. About the way his mouth curved when he corrected me, patient and sharp at the same time. About the kiss I kept pretending hadn’t happened.
My body reacted before my brain could stop it.
Heat pooled low in my stomach. Awareness sharpeneduntil it felt almost painful. I shifted slightly, then froze, terrified I’d move too much and wake him. And if he woke up now and got even a faint hint that I was rock hard and flustered inches away from him, I’d never crawl out of the Earth through which I’d hope to fall.
This is not appropriate, I told myself.
That did absolutely nothing.
I lay there, rigid and restless, every nerve tuned toward the inches between us. I tried counting breaths again. I tried thinking about practice. About drills. About the coach yelling. About literally anything that wasn’t the warmth behind me.
It all led back to the same place. It all led to the fact that I wanted to turn around and face him, to lean in, to let my brow touch his, to let our hands reach for one another, and to let the darkness hide the secrets between us.
Then Bennet moved.
It was slow and unconscious, just a sleepy adjustment. The mattress shifted. His breath changed. And then his hand brushed my back.
I sucked in a breath so fast it almost hurt.
His fingers rested against my skin, warm and light, just below my shoulder blade.
I went completely still. The contact burned in the best and worst way. My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could feel it through my back.
Please don’t move. Please.
The thought came unfiltered, selfish, and raw. I didn’t want the touch to end. I didn’t want him to wake up and realize where his hand was. I didn’t want to have to explain myself or my body or the way this felt dangerous and perfect all at once.
His hand stayed.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. Time got weird in moments like this.
I lay there, barely breathing, letting the warmth sink into me until it felt like it had always belonged there. Every instinct I had screamed to turn around, to look at him, to close the distance properly.
I didn’t.
I kept my back to him and took it, the ache and the want and the quiet desperation, because that was the only way I knew how to keep him safe from my mess.
Eventually, his fingers curled slightly, then slid away as he shifted again. The loss was immediate, both sharp and cold. I bit down on it and forced myself to breathe through my nose.
The night dragged on.
At some point, the tension dulled into something heavy and exhausting. My thoughts slowed. My body finally gave up the fight. Sleep crept in sideways, unwelcome but relentless.