We lay there until our breathing evened out, until the buzz faded into something calmer and sweeter. At some point, my hand found his, and our fingers laced together without either of us thinking about it.
“I should probably shower,” he said eventually, reluctant.
“Good idea,” I said, equally unwilling to move. “You’re sticky.”
He made a face. “You’re not exactly fresh.”
“Rude,” I said, but I grinned and shifted anyway. I stood first, offering him a hand. He took it, a little unsteady, and I steadied him without comment.
The shower steamed up fast. I stepped under the water first, adjusting the temperature, then pulled him in with me. The heat wrapped around us, soothing sore muscles and washing the night away piece by piece.
We didn’t rush. I handed him soap, let him rinse, let the moment stay gentle. He leaned against the tile while I washed his hair for him, fingers careful, unhurried. His eyes closed, shoulders dropping like he’d finally let go of something heavy.
When it was my turn, he copied me clumsily but earnestly, hands sliding over my shoulders, down my arms. Nothing frantic. Nothing urgent. Just touch for the sake of touch.
After, we dried off side by side, bumping elbows, laughing softly when the towel slipped. Back in bed, clean and warm, Bennet curled against me again, this time easier. Like something had settled into place.
I stared at the ceiling, his weight solid and real against me, and felt something unfamiliar bloom in my chest. This wasn’t just lust, though lust was undeniable.
As if he could read my thoughts, Bennet began to draw circles over my chest and abs, his hand descending carefully along my torso. When he looked up at me, I knew without saying a word that he felt it, too. It wasn’t just a desperate need for more, but something else entirely.
And even if I couldn’t get to the bottom of it, I surrendered to the moment and to his hands and to whatever he wanted to do for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
bennet
I woke slowly,consciousness creeping in through layers of warmth and unfamiliar comfort.
Wrong bed. Wrong sheets. Wrong smell.
I blinked at the ceiling, trying to orient myself. The room came into being around me in pieces. Posters. A guitar. A rainbow flag covering part of the window.
Jason’s room.
My body registered everything at once. The sheets were soft against my bare skin.Bare skin. I wasn’t dressed. The pillow beside me still held the indent of another head, the fabric warm when I reached over to touch it.
The smell surrounded me. Pine and detergent and something underneath that was distinctly Jason. I’d memorized it, because of course I had.
But the pillow was empty.
Panic spiked through my chest sharply. I sat up too fast, sheets pooling at my waist. Where was he? Had heleft? Had he woken up and regretted everything and couldn’t even face me?
Then I heard the water running in the bathroom. The shower.
Relief hit me so hard I had to lie back down.
He was just in the bathroom. He hadn’t left me alone in his own room. He hadn’t disappeared.
But the relief lasted only seconds before a different kind of panic set in.
What happened now? What were the rules for this? Did I get dressed and pretend to be casual when he came out? Did I stay in bed? Did I leave before he finished showering so we didn’t have to do the awkward morning-after thing?
I stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe normally.
This wasn’t the first time I’d woken up in Jason’s bed. But last time, I’d been fully clothed, having passed out during a study session, mortified when I’d realized what happened.
This was different.