Chapter 12
chapter
twelve
Evelyn
I don't mean to fall asleep on the couch. It just... happens.
We're watching something on TV—some documentary about street food that Mike insisted was "critically acclaimed,” and I insisted looked like "fancy people pretending they discovered dumplings"—and at some point, my eyes get heavy.
The couch is comfortable. He's warm beside me.
The narrator's voice is soothing in that British documentary way.
The next thing I know, I'm blinking awake in darkness, and I'm not on the couch anymore.
I'm in his bed. Under his covers. Wearing yesterday's clothes.
Mike is beside me—on top of the covers, fully dressed, a respectful foot of space between us. He's asleep, one arm thrown over his face, breathing slow and deep.
He carried me here. And then he stayed.
Something warm blooms in my chest.
I should get up. Go to my room. Maintain the boundaries we haven't officially defined. Instead, I close my eyes and let myself have this—the quiet intimacy of sharing a bed with someone who doesn't expect anything from me.
When I wake again, it's morning, and Mike is gone.
But there's coffee on the nightstand. Still warm.