Oh. Oh…
But Turner doesn’t say a word; doesn’t open his eyes.
His other hand slides beneath the blanket, finds my thigh like it’s done it a hundred times, and drapes across it lazily. He mumbles something that sounds like,“S’just me. Go to sleep,”nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck like we’ve done this a dozen nights before.
We fit.
I just let myself melt into the mattress and him, my cheek pressed against the curve of his chest, eyes wide open in the dark.
Palm skimming over his chest…
Across his rib cage…
Up and over again. Smooth collarbone.
Shoulder.
My fingers explore his curves in the dark until eventually, his large palm finds my wrist. Gently.
He doesn’t push me away.
Says nothing….
Just holds my hand against his chest, thumb brushing softly over my knuckles as if it soothes him.
It’s dangerous, this kind of closeness. This comfort that feels like it was years in the making—even though we barely know each other. Even though I can still count the number of days we’ve lived under the same roof on one hand.
His breathing shifts, just enough to make my own catch.
A slower inhale. A heavier exhale.
The muscles beneath my palm twitch, his chest rising in a new rhythm, less unconscious. Less sleep.
And then his thumb stills.
A pause.
Like he’s realizing where we are. How we’re tangled. The weight of my leg still draped over his.
I stay completely still, barely blinking, barely breathing. My skin burns with awareness. Every place we touch feels hotter than it should, like my nerves are dialing themselves up to full volume.
He doesn’t move his hand from mine.
But I feel it now, his awareness settling in, like he’s cataloguing the curve of my hip against his side. My knee hooked over his thigh. The dip of my waist where his arm could easily slide and hold?—
He shifts slightly. Just barely. Just enough that the sheet slips lower on his hips and my breath stutters.
Then—
“Poppy,” he murmurs. His voice is scratchy and sleep-heavy, brushing the back of my neck like a secret.
My name on his voice does something to me I don’t want to examine.
“Hm?” I try to play it cool. Fail miserably. My voice comes out softer than intended, all breath and nerves.
There’s a beat of silence.
“You feel good.”
