My eyebrows shoot up.
Heather catches my eye over Micah’s head and immediately mouthsdon’t you say a word.
I bite back a laugh.
Jude brushes past me, his hand warm and subtle at the small of my back as he walks by, and we settle together on the couch opposite them. The four of us sink into a comfortable silence. It’s sleepy and wine-heavy, reminding me of far too many nights in college when she and I would do exactly this while procrastinating assignments.
Micah eventually stretches, Heather’s hands slipping away from his hair, and he stands up. “Okay,” he yawns, rubbing his face, “guest room?”
Heather gets up too, smoothing her hoodie like she wasn’t just cradling a grown man against her chest. “Yeah. Uh—yeah.”
“I’m tired, too,” Jude yawns, helping me up.
We follow them down the hallway, the lights dim, the house quiet except for the distant ocean outside. Jude walks beside me, his arm brushing mine with every step, and it’s ridiculous how much it calms me.
We stop at the guest room door. Micah opens his mouth to say goodnight, but Heather tugs lightly at the front of his shirt. He barely has a chance to lean down before she kisses him. And it’s not an awkward, first-fling kind of kiss. It’s slow, warm, like she’s been waiting all night to do it. And knowing her, she has. Micah’s hand comes up to her jaw, and she melts into him.
“Oh my god,” I whisper under my breath.
Jude lets out a low laugh beside me. “Finally,” he murmurs.
Heather’s eyes widen as she pulls away from Micah. “Goodnight!” she squeaks, shoving him inside the room and slamming the door behind them.
I burst into soft laughter. Jude does too, shaking his head.
We look at each other in the dim hallway, and something in his expression mirrors what’s happening in my chest—a tenderness, a disbelief, a little hope beginning to take shape.
“Come on,” I whisper.
Jude nods, and follows me toward my bedroom. I close the bedroom door behind us, and suddenly the silence is even louder. He stands near my dresser, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweats, eyes tracking me.
“It feels...weird,” I admit, rubbing my arm as I move toward my closet. “Having you in my bedroom. But also...not weird at all.”
His mouth curves. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
I swallow, fingers brushing over the fabric of my pajama sets before I pick the blue one—soft cotton shorts and a fitted tank. I hesitate for half a beat before glancing at him. He’s watching me.
I struggle to steady my breathing. I turn my back to him, peeling off my shirt, then my jeans, and I can feel his gaze between my shoulder blades. I don’t ask him to look away, and by the time I slip into the matching set, my pulse is fluttering in my throat.
When I face him again, he’s still staring. He doesn’t pretend otherwise.
“You…” He clears his throat. “You look good. Better than good.”
My stomach flips. “You’re staring. You watched me the entire time, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
He pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor. Then he steps out of his sweats and stands there in nothing but black boxers—his body all lean lines and tense muscles, shifting as he climbs into the bed.
He looks nervous.
Jude Graves looks nervous.
Somehow, that makes me feel braver. I slide under the covers beside him, but I keep space between us, my heart beatingtoo fast, my hands too warm.
He rubs his palms on the blankets. “This is weird, right?”
“We already used that word,” I whisper. “A lot, actually.”