Bound to my Enemy novel Chapter 92

Chapter 92: Chapter 92.

When I wake up the next day the first thing I notice is warmth. Not the heavy, suffocating kind that makes me want to kick the blankets off, but steady heat at my back. There’s an arm around my waist, loose, not trapping me, just there.

My eyes open fully and I stare at the wall in front of me, my mind scrambling to catch up. For a second I think maybe I wandered into the wrong room again. Maybe this is still some half-dream my brain hasn’t let go of yet

Then I shift slightly and the arm tightens, just a fraction.

Zane.

My stomach twists.

He’s still here.

He leaves the bed before I wake always. Half the time he’s already gone when I open my eyes, like he doesn’t want to deal with whatever version of me the morning brings. So this.....him still here, this close...feels wrong in a way I can’t name.

I don’t move again.

His breathing changes his not asleep anymore.

Then his arm loosens and I roll just enough to look up.

He’s already watching me.

Flat on his back, head turned toward me, eyes open.

"Morning," he says.

His voice is low and rough from sleep.

I swallow my throat feeling dry. "Morning."

He studies my face like he’s checking for something. His hand is still at my waist, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. I don’t push it away. I don’t lean into it either.

He smiles.

It’s small. Barely there but it’s real

"How’d you sleep?"

I blink, surprised by how easily the answer comes.

"Better than I have in years."

The words hang between us.

For a second, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that. His jaw tightens, then relaxes. His thumb moves once, slow, against my side.

"I’m glad," he says.

Simple.

The room is quiet. Late-morning quiet. Light spills in through the curtains, warm and pale, catching dust in the air. I can smell soap on him. Clean and Familiar now in a way that makes my chest feel tight.

I notice little things. The crease between his brows that never fully smooths out. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his eyes soften when he realizes I’m really awake, really here.

I should feel awkward. I should feel trapped.

I don’t.

What I feel is strange and uncomfortable and oddly safe.

I shift, pushing myself up on one elbow. The movement breaks whatever spell is hanging in the air. His hand falls away and he sits up too, the sheet slipping down his chest. I look away, not because I’m shy, but because this moment feels fragile and I don’t want to snap it.

He watches me anyway.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, then pause. "A little."

"We’ll get you something."

I glance at him again. He’s already swinging his legs out of bed, moving like he’s decided something.

I sit there for a moment longer, sheets pooled around my waist, trying to understand why this morning feels different.

Why my chest doesn’t ache.

Why my head feels clear.

Why, for the first time in a long time, waking up doesn’t feel like something I have to survive.

I’m still half tucked into the pillows when he says it.

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