Then I slide back under the covers with her.
Jenna drapes her leg over mine, her face nestled in the curve of my neck, the warm scent of us enveloping the dark. My hand glides up and down her spine, devoid of any agenda, just touch, just presence.
“I used to hang up and hold the phone against my chest,” she says into the darkness. “Like I could keep you there. I’d press itflat against my sternum, and sometimes I’d fall asleep like that. With a phone on my chest because it was the closest thing I had to you.”
I did the same thing. Every night. Her voice followed by silence, then the phone against my chest, like a borrowed heartbeat.
She shifts, reaching across me toward the nightstand. I still when she brings my glasses back. Something in me quiets in a way I don’t fully understand.
She slides them on carefully, tucking the arms behind my ears, her thumbs brushing along my temples. No one has ever done this. At least, not like this.
My gaze meets hers.
“There you are,” she whispers.
Something in my chest gives.
She doesn’t mean the glasses.
She means me. The parts of myself that I don’t let other people see.
I pull her back in, pressing my mouth to her hair, holding her close. My breathing is uneven now—not from before, but from this.
From how much this means.
I’m smiling before I even open my eyes.
Morning.
Jenna is spread across my chest, her head tucked under my chin, her breath warming my throat.
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, a single vibration. I reach for it instinctively, still surfacing from the best sleep I’ve ever had.
Unknown number.
I know where you are, Jenna. We should talk about what you took.
My smile fades.
Everything inside me goes still.
Jenna’s arm tightens around me, an unconscious pull, even in sleep, like she knows I’m here. Like she needs me here.
I don’t move.
I just hold the phone and stare at the screen, every instinct sharpening at once.
The storm isn’t coming.
It’s already here.