6

Unbothered, just sleeping

I should have been relieved.

The weight was gone, the heat against my back had disappeared, and I was finally free.

So why the hell was my face burning?

I pressed a hand against my cheek, willing the heat to go away. It's only frustration. Annoyance. That's all it was.

But my body felt stiff for a different reason now. My skin still tingled where he had been pressed against me. The way his breath had felt against my neck, the weight of his arm, the warmth of his leg draped over mine—

Nope. Nope. Not gonna think about it.

I spun on my heel and made a beeline for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. My breath came out heavier than I wanted it to, my pulse just slightly off rhythm.

This is ridiculous.

I braced my hands against the sink, glaring at my reflection. My face was still flushed, my hair a mess from twisting around all night. I exhaled sharply, running a hand through it in frustration.

It was just a body pressed against mine. That's it.

But my brain wouldn't let it go. Wouldn't stop remembering.

The way his breath ghosted against my skin. The faint scent of him, something light, clean, subtly sharp.

The weight of his arm, the shift of his muscles beneath his shirt.

I swallowed hard. My fingers curled against the porcelain.

This was so. Damn. Stupid.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shove the memories away. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable warmth pooling in my stomach, the way my body tensed in ways I didn't want to acknowledge.

I knew what this was.

And I hated it.

I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders before reaching for the faucet. Cold water. That's what I needed. Something to shock my system, drown out whatever this was.

Because this—whatever was creeping into my head, whatever had lodged itself in my chest—wasn't going to happen.

Not with him. Not ever.

I splashed the cold water onto my face, again.

It didn't help.

I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white. What the hell is wrong with me?

This wasn't the first time I had dealt with irritation, exhaustion, or even an unwanted invasion of personal space. But this?

This was different.

The worst part wasn't the fact that he had fallen asleep practically on top of me.

It wasn't even the fact that his scent was still stuck in my head, that the feeling of him was still lingering on my skin.

It was the fact that I didn't really hate it.

I exhaled sharply, squeezing my eyes shut.

No. I do hate it. I hate how it's messing with my head. I hate how my body is reacting.

I braced my hands against the sink, inhaling deeply, trying to force the thoughts away.

But the problem with trying not to think about something is that it only makes you think about it more.

I cursed under my breath, my head dropping forward.

This is stupid.

It's just lingering nerves. A leftover reaction from waking up in an unfamiliar situation. My body was just confused, that's all.

It didn't mean anything.

Did it?

I forced myself to stand straight, dragging my fingers through my hair, trying to shake off the heat still clinging to my skin.

I needed to focus. To push this out of my head and pretend it never happened.

Because the alternative—acknowledging whatever this was—was not an option.

Not now. Not ever.