Rena
Iwake to warmth and the disorienting realization that I'm not in my rental.
The soft sheets smell of him. There’s a solid presence at my back, an arm heavy around my waist. This should feel strange, waking up in Caleb’s bed after knowing him less than two weeks.
It doesn't.
It’s dangerous territory. I know that. This is how you get attached to temporary things.
I know that. It's why I've spent years keeping people at arm's length.
Except I'm not itching to leave right now.
I'm comfortable, and that's somehow more terrifying than any of the reasons I should be panicking.
I turn carefully to look at him without the intensity that's always there when he's awake. In sleep, the hard edges have softened. I reach out to trace his jaw, and his eyes open, catching me in the act.
There's no irritation in his gaze. Just warmth.
"Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep.
He catches my wrist before I can pull my hand back, pressing my palm to his cheek. "You okay?"
I consider lying. "I'm terrified," I admit instead. "But not because of last night. Because of how not-terrible this feels."
His mouth curves into a smile that transforms his whole face. "That's a pretty good review for someone who's terrified."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," he says, and kisses me, slowly, morning breath be damned.
"We have work," I say, trying to be responsible.
"We do," he agrees, making no move to get up, his hand skimming down my side with a familiarity that shouldn't exist after one night but somehow does.
"If we're late, people are going to notice."
"Let them notice. I'm done hiding this."
The words should scare me. Instead what I feel is relief at the idea that I won't have to carefully maintain distance.
We're late. Very late, by the time we finally make it out of bed, and neither of us is remotely sorry about it.
"They're going to know," I say, climbing into my truck in yesterday's clothes, my hair still damp from our joint shower and an obvious mark on my neck I decided wasn't worth the effort to cover.
"Let them know," Caleb says, leaning against my door with a casual confidence that suggests he's not concerned about the implications at all. "I meant what I said."
Something warm blooms in my chest at the certainty in his voice. He's not asking permission. He's just decided, and he's trusting me to tell him if that's a problem.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Then we don't hide it."
When I pull into the site lot and see his truck already there, I realize something important has shifted. This isn't temporary anymore. It stopped being temporary the moment I decided to stay last night, and the moment I woke up this morning and didn't immediately panic.
I don't know what that means yet. But I know one thing with absolute certainty.
I'm in deeper than I ever planned to be. And I'm not sure I want to find my way back out.