Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Cal
She’s not asleep.
I can tell by the way her breath keeps hitching—light and uneven, like she’s trying to force it steady.
I keep my eyes on the ceiling, even though I can feel every inch of her beside me. She’s not touching me. Hasn’t since we laid down.
But it doesn’t matter. The awareness hums in my skin anyway.
My arm’s outside the blanket. I should move it. Tuck in. Turn over. Do something.
Instead, I stay still and pretend that helps.
The sheets are warm from both our bodies. The mattress dips slightly toward her side where she curled into the edge, but I swear I can feel her heat bleeding across the space between us.
Not close. Not touching. But near enough that it makes my chest feel tight.
I shift my hand, just slightly, and the back of my knuckles graze the blanket by her hip.
Not her skin. Just the fabric. But it’s enough to make my pulse skip.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
I told myself this was no big deal. A favor. A place to stay. Keep it simple.
But nothing about the way she crawled under these covers felt simple.
And nothing about the way I keep wanting to turn toward her feels safe.
I breathe out slow, willing my body to calm the hell down.
But everything’s wound so fucking tight.
My jaw aches from clenching. My legs are too long for the bed when I stay this stiff. My shoulder’s already starting to cramp from lying on it wrong.
But I don’t move. Don’t roll over. Don’t risk making this weird.
Because right now—here in the dark, with her only inches away—it feels…okay.
Better than okay.
It feels like something I don’t have a name for.
I’ve shared beds before. Hookups, hotel rooms, team travel, whatever.
But this—her, quiet beside me, curled into the pillows in my damn T-shirt—this isn’t that.
She doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t press or perform.
And maybe that’s what’s fucking me up most.
I let my eyes flick toward her, just for a second. She’s facing away, one hand tucked under her cheek, hair spilling over the pillow. Peaceful. Almost.
Except for that breath.
Too shallow.
Too careful.
She’s not asleep.
I don’t say anything. Don’t want to spook whatever this moment is.
But I turn just a little. Not enough to reach her. Just enough to be…closer.
Her presence fills the room. Quiet and steady. Like a song I haven’t heard in years but still know all the words to.
And I can’t help the thought that lands too heavy in my chest:
She should feel like a guest.
But she doesn’t.
“You awake?”
Her voice is soft. Not tentative, not embarrassed—just quiet.
I blink into the dark and when I can make out the curve of her silhouette, I see the faint shine of her eyes as she stares up at the ceiling like I was.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low and rough with sleep. Or something like it.
She exhales, a slow rush of air, and shifts slightly. The mattress dips again, and I feel it all the way in my gut.
“Can’t sleep,” she murmurs.
I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t want to.
Because I don’t trust what I’ll say if I do.
I roll onto my back, arms folded behind my head, and glance over.
She’s still staring upward, her expression unreadable in the moonlight.
“Me either.”
A beat passes.
“Do you always play guitar in the middle of the night?” she asks, a smile tucked into her tone.
“Only when I’m trying not to think.”
It slips out before I can stop it.
She doesn’t push. Just lets the quiet stretch, like she’s giving me space to take it back.
I don’t.
Her voice breaks the silence again. “That song...what was it?”
I shift slightly, my foot brushing the sheet near hers.
“Something my mom used to hum when she did dishes. I never knew the name. Just…remembered the sound of it.”
She doesn’t speak. But I feel her looking at me now. Not just hearing me—really looking.
“You don’t talk about her much, do you?” she finally says.
“No.” My throat’s tight. “Not usually.”
Another pause. No pressure. Just the quiet kind of understanding.
“I liked it,” she says softly. “The way you played. It felt honest.”
Honest.
That word sinks deep.
“I guess I don’t have the energy to fake anything right now.”
She lets out a soft laugh, dry but not unkind. “Then we’re both pretty raw, huh?”
I nod, then realize she can’t see it. “Yeah.”
Our bodies haven’t moved. We’re still on opposite sides of the bed, barely taking up space. But something about the air between us shifts to something warmer. Closer.
I glance sideways again. Her profile’s faint in the dark, hair messy against the pillow, one hand tucked under her chin.
“I don’t usually do this,” she says suddenly. “Stay. Talk. Any of it.”
I don’t push. I just listen. Maybe that’s the most honest thing I can do for her.
She turns her face toward me slightly. I feel the weight of her gaze.
“But you’re easy to talk to,” she admits. “And that’s…dangerous.”
A slow beat settles between us.
I swallow hard, trying to keep it light. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She huffs a soft breath, and her shoulder shifts just enough that the blanket rustles.
“I should sleep,” she says. But she doesn’t move.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”
The silence stretches again, but it’s not awkward.
It’s heavy with things we’re not saying.
I shift slightly, letting one arm fall out from behind my head, sliding across my chest to rest flat on the mattress.
She moves too.
Not much.
Just enough.
Her knee brushes mine under the sheet. Barely there, just fabric against fabric. But my body reacts like she’s touched skin. Every muscle tightens, then releases all at once.
I don’t speak. Neither does she.
But she doesn’t move away.
Instead, I feel her exhale. Slow. Careful. And her leg stays where it is.
I could reach for her. Could bridge the gap between us in a heartbeat.
But I don’t.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because this feels like more.
Not a lead-up. Not a tease. Just…being here. With her. In this soft, strange, midnight moment.
I let out a breath of my own, quieter than hers. My eyes close, and I focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the warmth radiating from her side of the bed.
She shifts again, just slightly, and now I can feel the curve of her shoulder near mine. We’re not touching. But we’re not not touching either.
She whispers, voice barely above air.
“Goodnight, Cal.”
I open my eyes. The ceiling’s still dark. But everything inside me feels lighter.
“Night, Noelle.”
A few more heartbeats. Her breathing evens out.
And I let myself drift.
Closer to sleep than I’ve been in days.
Closer to her than I probably should be.