Page 78 of Break Me Apart
He glances down the corridor. “I’ll get blankets,” he says.
“I know where they are,” I tell him, already moving.
We keep the lamp on by the sofa and leave the rest of the lights off. Caiden clears a space with the kind of practical ease that tells me he’s done this before, probably several nights now. I pull out a blanket, shake it open, and drop onto the sofa beside him.
The tiredness hits me all at once.
The exercise, the journey back, the letter, the door opening on Caiden instead of Niko. My body finally notices that I’ve run out of things keeping me up.
He throws the blanket over both of us and tucks it in without comment. The whole gesture is so ordinary it nearly gets me.
“Come here,” he says quietly, pulling me closer. I don’t argue, I shift into him, nuzzling my face against his chest, and his arm comes around me naturally.
He’s warm, and he smells like soap and something that has become home without consulting me first. My hand catches in the hem of his shirt, and I keep it there.
We don’t talk anymore. There’s nothing left that can be said without spoiling it. His breathing evens out slowly under my ear, and I let myself follow it. Somewhere down the corridor, I hear Niko turning over in bed — or maybe he’s just shifting in his sleep — and Vladimir stays quiet.
Caiden adjusts the blanket higher around us both, half asleep already, and angles his body so I’m held properly instead of just leaning. It’s completely thoughtless, which makes it worse in the best possible way.
Sleep takes me in pieces at first, then more fully. The last thing I’m aware of is his arm around me and the quiet, stupid certainty that for tonight, at least, I don’t have to keep watch.
Nothing is fixed. Nothing is settled. Cassie is still dead and Niko is still broken by it.
But Caiden is here, in my arms.
Where he belongs.
TWENTY-FIVE
CAIDEN
I wake up because my arm has died. Not metaphorically. Properly. Literally. Shoulder to fingertips, gone. There’s a dull throb running through it like my circulation has taken personal leave, and for a second, I lie there trying to work out what exactly I did to deserve this. Then the weight across my chest shifts slightly. It’s warm, solid, and very much not the blanket.
Ari.
He’s asleep on top of me, one arm folded under my shoulder, his head tucked just right against my collarbone as if that’s his new pillow and my circulation can get over itself. His breathing is slow, even, and deeper than it’s ever been for as long as I’ve known him.
I stay very still, taking in the tiny features of his face. Still absolutely dumbfounded that this impossible, beautiful man is really mine.
I don’t remember falling asleep, not properly. I remember lying down beside him on the sofa because it was late and neither of us had the strength to pretend that we’d go our separate ways like sensible men. I remember his head on my chest, then the whole evening blurring into warmth, breathing, and the kind of tired that knocks you clean out.
Carefully, I try flexing my fingers.
Pins and needles hit me all at once, the vicious little bastards, and I have to bite back a whimper. Ari murmurs something under his breath and presses closer without waking up. My chest aches so suddenly in this moment, it’s almost embarrassing.
Right. Fine. Excellent. Very normal response to a man using me as a mattress.
I tilt my head enough to check the time. Too early. Also not early enough, which is the irritating thing because I have to go. The knowledge sneaks up on me with a quiet, unreasonable sort of resentment, not because I can’t survive one morning briefing without being wrapped round Ari on his brother’s sofa, but because this is the first time in weeks we’ve been in the same room without distance, tension, and logistics sticking their oars in. I’ve barely had him back for one night and already the day wants me elsewhere.
Still, some things don’t change, no matter how much you glare at them.
“Ari,” I murmur, barely above a breath. I get nothing. I try again, softer. “Hey. Come on. You need to wake up.”
He shifts, his brow furrowing, and his mouth pulling into the smallest annoyed frown. His grip tightens for a second like his body wants to keep me as a body pillow, before the rest of him catches up.
“What...” he says. It isn’t really a question. It’s more of a complaint dragged up through sleep.
I smile before I can stop myself. “Morning.”
