Something soft and warm is in my arms. My half-asleep mind barely registers it until my fingers shift, pressing into a gentle curve. Wait—soft? My eyes snap open, and I find myself wrapped tightly around Leona's waist. She's sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard, and looking down at me with an amused smile.
"Well, good morning," she says, her voice light with humor. "Glad you're finally awake. You've been holding me hostage for what feels like an eternity."
My brain stalls for a moment, catching up with the reality of our situation. I release her quickly, as if burned, the loss of her warmth immediate and almost unbearable. "Ahem," I mutter, shifting to lie on my side of the bed, trying to play it off.
"Why didn't you wake me?" I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes but still keeping my gaze carefully fixed away from her.
"And disturb your sleep?" she teases, running her fingers through my hair as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "You looked so peaceful. I couldn't bring myself to do it."
Her touch sends a shiver down my spine, and I glance up at her through half-lidded eyes. The sight is enough to make my chest tighten. She looks like she stepped out of a dream, her brown eyes warm and slightly teasing, her hair tousled, and her lips curved in a soft smile. She's wearing one of my shirts, and the way it hangs off her shoulder exposes just enough of her skin to drive me crazy.
The morning air is cool, and I can't help but notice how it affects her. Her body is so close, so utterly tempting, and it's taking every ounce of willpower I have not to stare.
I groan and let my head fall back against the pillow, feigning exasperation.
"Still tired?" she asks softly, her fingers still threading through my hair, the motion soothing yet maddeningly intimate.
"Yeah," I manage to say, my voice a little rough. "Tired."
In truth, exhaustion isn't the problem anymore. It's her—being this close to her, feeling her touch, smelling her subtle scent. It's overwhelming, intoxicating, and I'm dangerously close to crossing a line I'm not sure either of us is ready for.
I shift slightly, making sure the comforter is firmly in place over my lower half. The last thing I need is for her to notice how much this proximity is affecting me. That would be awkward, considering we're just friends. Friends don't lose their minds over the simplest of touches, do they?
Her fingers pause for a moment, and I glance up to find her studying me with a look I can't quite place. It's soft, yes, but there's something else there—something that sends my heart racing.
"You're always working so hard," she murmurs, almost to herself. "You should take better care of yourself, Zane."
Her concern hits me harder than it should. I want to tell her that I'm fine, that I don't need her to worry about me, but the words catch in my throat. Instead, I reach up, gently taking her hand in mine, stopping her soothing motions.
"I'm okay," I say quietly, holding her gaze. "Really."
She doesn't pull away, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us. The air between us shifts, charged with something unspoken. My heart pounds, and I wonder if she can hear it, if she can feel the way she affects me.
But then she smiles, soft and sweet, and the tension eases just enough for me to breathe again. "Good," she says simply, though her eyes linger on mine a second longer than necessary.
She leans back, her fingers slipping from mine, and the loss of her touch feels like a cold ache. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, but the image of her—wrapped in my shirt, sitting so close—burns itself into my mind.
This woman is going to be the death of me. And the worst part? I don't think I'd mind.