Damien
She's gone quiet.
That never happens.
I glance down.
Vivienne's lashes are fluttering against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, still wearing the tiniest pout like she fell asleep mid-complaint. One hand is fisted in my hoodie. The other is tucked beneath her cheek.
And she's practically half on top of me now.
I should probably push her off. Or at least shift her weight so I don't lose circulation in my arm.
But I don't.
She moves slightly — just a little sigh — and burrows deeper into me.
Her hair spills across my chest like a damn curtain, long enough to reach my waist, warm and soft and smelling like coconut shampoo and expensive conditioner.
She should be annoying. She is annoying. All that talking. All that noise. All that clinging.
But she's also the only person who's ever made silence feel like a choice, not a punishment.
I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
She doesn't move.
She's really asleep.
She must've gotten, what, three hours? Maybe four? No wonder she looked like a zombie with mascara.
I exhale through my nose and lean back against the headboard, phone buzzing somewhere far away now.
I should care.
But I'm too busy listening to her breathing.
Slow. Even.
Peaceful.
And yeah… maybe I've never wanted to be anyone's safe place. But it's 7:32 a.m., and Vivienne Crestwood is asleep in my arms, and I'd rather the world end than wake her up.
So I don't move.
Not an inch.