Carved in Her Bones

Rhian

I didn't remember falling asleep or even leaving the club. The room was pitch black, the sheets soft, the bed far too comfortable and spacious to be my dorm. My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, and as I sat up, I made out his figure in the corner—a tall frame, long legs stretched out, head tipped back in what looked like an impossibly uncomfortable position.

Peter was asleep in an armchair. It wasn't his room, but I felt safe with him there, vaguely recalling the blur of the night: I'd definitely thrown up, but getting back here was a blank. I glanced at the bedside table where a glass of water and a single paracetamol sat waiting. How could he be both this considerate and yet seemingly so uninterested in crossing that line with me? I took the pill, gulped down the water, and felt a thirst quenched I hadn't even been aware of. It was 7 a.m. How long had he been watching over me, uncomfortably propped in that chair?

Without really thinking, I crawled onto his lap, drawn to his warmth, his presence. I noticed I was in unfamiliar pajamas, and made a mental note to interrogate him about changing me without permission. He stirred just enough to pull me close, his arms around me as he kissed the top of my head, then drifted back to sleep, holding me. Surrounded by his scent, I felt content in a way that lulled me back into sleep as well.

We woke to the bright morning sun filling the room. His green eyes were already on me, flecks of gold catching the light, and I couldn't look away. We stared, communicating in a way words couldn't. I hoped my eyes conveyed the thanks I felt, the need, the overwhelming sense that I was exactly where I wanted to be, with him. His gaze held the same intensity, and I prayed it held the same message.

"Hello, love. Sleep well?" he murmured, voice rough. I just smiled, unwilling to risk vodka breath, hoping that in that quiet moment, he understood everything.