The blanket shifts as I scoot in and he slides a hand underneath. His warm palm finds my knee. I hitch it higher until I’m curled in a fetal position in front of him. In long, methodical strokes, he runs a tender hand over my calves.
“This okay?” he murmurs.
My eyes begin to flutter. I nod. “You can touch…more…i-if you want.”
I hate how my voice sounds, all weak and uncertain. But Rowan’s soft chuckle sets my mind at ease. “Don’t ever assume again that I don’t want to touch you. Got it?”
“So bossy.”
His hand journeys from my ankle, up to my knee, then my thigh before skating a path back down to start again. He does this over and over, every pass a little easier as he plants reassuring squeezes along the way.
Before I drift into unconsciousness, his lips come to my forehead. They float over one brow, then the other, mouthing something I can’t make out, like a prayer against my skin until I fall asleep in his arms.
A trickleof music pours from my phone, and I groan at the reminder. Rolling onto my back, I slap my hand around the bedside table until the beeping stops. I rotate back to find Rowan already awake, head propped on one elbow, looking entirely too alert for six in the morning.
“Morning, sunshine.”
I rub the sleep from my face. “No sunshine before coffee and eggs.”
He grins, pops a brow. “You gonna rate me as tough as you did yesterday?”
“Depends,” I squeak through a yawn, nestling back into his chest. “You gonna do better?”
His hand finds my leg under the blanket in the same manner he used to lull me to sleep last night. “Brat.”
I smile against the cotton of his shirt. “I tell it like it is, soldier.”
“Hey,” he whispers with a soft tap on my thigh. I shift up on the pillow, his eyes finding mine. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say.
“You okay?” I nod, and his mouth covers mine in a soft kiss. “Good.”
A peaceful silence drops into the air where words don’t fit. Gazes tethered, we study each other as the remnants of last night hover above us—close enough to touch but distant enough to ignore in exchange for the comfort that’s here now.
“Come to the lake house with me,” he says. I blink, holding his eyes. “I need to spend some time up there to go through everything in storage and I’m handing over the keys for the city house to the realtor today.”
I sigh, feigning inconvenience. “That’s quite a commute for work.”
“I believe in you.”
“You gonna reimburse me for gas?”
“Drive you myself if I have to.”
“Oooh, my own personal chauffeur. Tell me more.”
The bed dips as he maneuvers to his back. Playing along, he frames an imaginary portrait above him between two hands and says, “Picture this. A pickup truck older than your pretty little self with chipped paint, a squeaky door, and a broken climate control system.”
“Loving this.”
“And,” he says, with great emphasis, “no cup holders.”
“Who needs ‘em?”
“Not you,” he claps. “And the best part…” He pauses for dramatic effect, one finger poised in the air. “It smells like old man.”
“Where do I sign?”