POV Serena

Waking up feels like surfacing from a dream I never want to leave.

Warmth pressed against my spine, solid and real. A heavy arm draped over my waist like it was designed to fit there.

The scent of cedar and amber wraps around me, mixed with something earthier—sweat and sex and a night I’ll be replaying on loop until I’m old and gray and still blushing about it in my nursing home.

My eyes open slowly, reluctantly, afraid the magic will dissolve in morning light.

Sunlight filters through his curtains, painting golden stripes across sheets that smell like both of us now, and I’m in Caleb’s bed with Caleb’s arm holding me close and Caleb’s breath stirring the hair at my temple.

This is the part where guilt arrives. Where regret crashes through like campus security at a party that’s gotten too loud.

I wait for shame to settle heavy on my chest, for the inevitable spiral of self-recrimination I’ve perfected over nineteen years of overthinking every decision I’ve ever made.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s only the strange rightness of his palm splayed across my stomach, radiating heat through my skin. The comfort of his body curved around mine.

I should be horrified by how natural this feels, should be mentally drafting my escape route and calculating the exact number of steps to the bathroom door.

Instead, I’m memorizing the weight of his arm, the scratch of his stubble against my shoulder, the way his fingers curl possessively against my hip like even in half-sleep he’s claiming territory.

His thumb strokes my skin, a small sleepy movement that sends warmth pooling low in my belly.

“Morning.” His voice is rough with sleep, intimate in a way that makes my chest ache with something terrifyingly close to hope.

I turn in his arms and find his eyes already on my face, soft and unguarded in the honeyed light.

No cruelty hiding behind that blue. No calculation sharpening those features. Just warmth I’ve never seen him offer anyone, and the sight of it does dangerous things to my carefully constructed defenses.

“How long have you been awake?” My voice comes out hushed.

Like speaking too loudly might shatter whatever spell has transformed Caleb Thornton into someone who looks at me like I hung the moon and stars.

“A while.” His thumb traces lazy circles on my hip, each rotation sending sparks skittering across my nerve endings. “You talk in your sleep, you know that? Very entertaining.”

Horror floods through me. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.” His grin is wicked and delighted and unfairly attractive this early in the morning. “Something about constitutional amendments and someone named Professor Henderson being a pretentious windbag.”

“Oh God.” I bury my face in the pillow, groaning. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

“I wish I was.” He tugs me closer, his laugh vibrating against my back, and the sound of it makes my heart do something complicated and dangerous. “My favorite part was when you mumbled about color-coded highlighters. Very sexy pillow talk, Lakin.”

I elbow him in the ribs, but I’m laughing too, and when was the last time I laughed with him at all?

“You’re insufferable,” I inform him, but there’s no heat behind it.

“And yet here you are.” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression that makes my breath catch. “Still in my bed.”

“The morning is young.” I reach up to trace the line of his jaw, marveling at the fact that I’m allowed to touch him like this now. His stubble scrapes pleasantly against my fingertips, and his eyes flutter half-closed at the contact, like even this small touch undoes him. “Give me time.”

“Take all the time you want.” He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

We stay like that for a while, tangled together in sheets that carry evidence of everything we did last night. He traces patterns on my shoulder while I map the landscape of his chest, cataloging scars I’ve never been close enough to notice before.

There’s a small one near his collarbone, another on his ribs. I don’t ask about them. I don’t want to summon the ghosts of his father into this fragile, golden morning.

“I should probably go get ready,” I murmur eventually, though every cell in my body protests the idea of leaving this bed. “The gala is tonight, and I need to—”

The softness in his expression dies like a flame snuffed between wet fingers.

“The gala?”

He repeats the words like they’re a death sentence he’s just been handed, and I watch the warmth drain from his eyes in real time, replaced by something cold and hard and horribly familiar.

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