His brow lifts. “Bed shenanigans.”
“Don’t judge my phrasing.”
“I’m judging it.”
I glare at him, but my cheeks are heating.
We move like we’re both trying to act normal. Like sliding into bed together is nothing. Like my pulse isn’t trying to break out of my ribs and sprint into the snow.
I go into the bedroom first, mostly because I need a second to breathe without Rhett’s presence making my brain glitch.
The room is dim and warm. The bed is big—too big for just one person, honestly—and it smells faintly like clean soap and cedar, like him. I hurry to the bathroom, brushing my teeth at record speeds. I change into one of his large t-shirts with nothing underneath.
I exit the bathroom, and Rhett is still in the other bathroom down the hall, getting ready to share this massive bed.
I climb in on one side, pulling the blanket up to my chest like it’s armor.
Rhett appears in the doorway a moment later, shirtless now, wearing sweatpants. My brain bluescreens.
Because…wow.
He’s not just big. He’sbuilt.Hard lines, lean muscle, a scattering of faint scars across his ribs that make my stomach twist with a mix of curiosity and something tender.
He catches me staring.
I immediately stare at the ceiling like it owes me money.
“Comfortable?” he asks dryly.
“Extremely,” I squeak. “I love ceilings.”
He crosses the room and slides into bed on the other side, leaving a respectable amount of space between us. So much space I could fit a small emotional support dog in the gap.
We lie there in silence. And it’s loud. The crackle of the fire out in the living room. The wind against the windows. The steady rhythm of Rhett’s breathing beside me.
My body is hyperaware of everything—his presence, the heat he radiates, the way the mattress dips slightly under his weight.
I turn my head, unable to help myself.
Rhett is staring at the ceiling too, jaw tight like he’s holding himself in place by force. His voice comes out low. “It’s been a long time since I slept next to a woman.”
My heart flips. I swallow. “Yeah?”
He glances toward me, eyes sharp even in the dim. “Yeah.”
I hesitate, then let the truth slip out because something about the quiet feels honest. “I’ve never slept next to a man.”
Rhett stills.
I immediately panic. “Not like—because I’m not— I mean?—”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Never?”
I shake my head, cheeks burning hot. “No. I’ve… never even kissed one.”
The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward. Charged.
Rhett turns onto his side slowly, facing me. In the dim, his gaze feels like a touch. “Why?” he asks, voice careful.