“Yes.”
She blinks. “Yes?”
“I’ll stay.”
I do.
The couch is a disaster.
It’s too short for my frame. The cushions are lumpy in all the wrong places. My feet hang off the end and every time I shift, something springs into my spine at an unfortunate angle.
I’ve slept in penthouses. Five-star hotels. Sheets with thread counts higher than most people’s salaries.
I’ve never slept on a couch. I’ve never wanted to.
But Stevie’s in the next room, wearing my shirt, I saw her pull it on as she said goodnight, deliberately, watching my face, and I’m not leaving. Not for any mattress. Not for any luxury in the world.
She appears in the doorway around midnight. “Can’t sleep?”
“The couch hates me.”
She laughs softly. Pads over. Sits on the edge, which puts her hip against my side and makes everything both better and worse.
“I can get you a pillow. Like, six pillows. Build you a whole structural support system out of decorative throws.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re six feet of man on a five-foot couch.”
“Five eleven. And I’ve survived worse.”
“Have you though?” She raises an eyebrow.
She’s right.
“It’s fine.”
“Yeah, sure. If by ‘fine’ you mean you’ll need a chiropractor and an exorcism by morning.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll survive.”
She pokes my leg with her foot. “You ever actually slept on a couch before? Or is this your first peasant experience?”
“I’ve done harder things.”
She snorts. “Bet you have, pretty boy.”
“Come here,” I say.
She hesitates. Just for a moment. Then she’s lying down next to me, pressed against my chest on this terrible couch that suddenly isn’t terrible at all.
“This is… illegal levels of cozy,” she says.
“I’m reporting you to the authorities.”
She yawns. “Good luck. I bribed them with cookies. Works on badges and bad boys.”
I wrap my arm around her. She fits against me perfectly. Her head on my chest, her hand over my heart, her breathing slowing as the minutes pass.
