Page 44 of Crawl for Me

Chapter 16

Sable

Isink deeper into the mattress with a groan, every muscle humming like I got wrecked last night and rebuilt with bent screws and leftover nails. Everything aches in a way that’s both alarming and smugly satisfying.

A heavy arm cinches around my waist, warm and solid, a chest pressed flush to my back. I arch into it, a sigh slipping out when his breath skims over my shoulder.

“Mm… good morning,” Noah mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

A smile tugs at my lips as I stretch, pressing back into him. “Good morning to you too.”

His hand flexes against my stomach, tugging me closer, and then his mouth grazes the back of my neck in the softest kiss.

Wait. Good morning?

My brain kicks on like a fire alarm. My heart stutters. My stomach tightens.

Good morning?

Shit.

This isn’t supposed to happen. We don’t do mornings. We don’t do after. Rules. Secrecy.

A loud, unmistakable bang rattles from the other side of the apartment, followed by the creak of something shifting and a low, mumbly groan that does not belong to the man currently spooning me.

My eyes snap open.

What the hell is going on?

Another thump. This one closer.

“Ugh, Sable. Do you have ibuprofen?” Sam’s voice calls out. “I think my brain’s leaking.”

Oh. Fuck.

The couch. He crashed here last night. Because he’d been wasted, and then I’d been too busy with…

Panic slices through the haze. I twist, limbs tangling in the sheets, shaking Noah’s shoulder hard. “Shit. Get the fuck up.”

He blinks up at me, dazed. “What⁠—”

“Sam,” I hiss, shoving at his chest. “He’s up. We fell asleep. You need to move. Now.”

His eyes widen, the fog clearing fast, and he scrambles half upright. My brain races, eyes darting around the room. Fire escape? No, it’s fucking freezing, he’d die in less than thirty seconds. Bathroom? No—what if Sam wanders in there and pukes on his shoes. Under the bed? Christ, no. He’d suffocate under a family of dust bunnies and three lost socks.

“The closet!” I whisper-shriek, grabbing his arm. “Fuck—go. Closet. Now.”

To his credit, he doesn’t argue. He jumps right out of the bed and stumbles toward the closet with the grace of a man who just had the best night of his life and is now paying the price. I shove him in, toss his shoes in after him, and slam the door, heart jackhammering in my chest.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

I dive back into bed, limbs flailing, yanking the covers up like they might hide the mess I’ve made of literally everything. My pulse roars in my ears. The sheets still smell like him—skin and sleep and sex—and I swear I can hear him breathing behind the door. Or maybe that’s me hyperventilating.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pulse thumping through my teeth, and whisper a silent prayer to every deity willing to offer me plausible deniability.

Be still, Noah. Be silent. Do not sneeze.

“Morning!”