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The realization lands heavy in my chest, and I can’t help the crooked smile that tugs at my mouth. Gods, this woman. I raise a brow and wave my hand lazily through the air.

“Mouse, I’ve lost more blood stubbing my toe.”

Her eyes widen, then she scoffs, but it’s faint—like a laugh pressed into a sigh. “That’s not even anatomically possible.”

“Sure it is,” I say, settling back against the pillows. “You’ve never seen me walk into a table corner at full speed. Gruesome stuff.”

She rolls her eyes, but a reluctant smile flickers at the edges of her lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters.

“And yet here you are,” I reply, shifting closer until our legs brush, “voluntarily sharing a bed with me. Makes you questionable by association.”

That gets a real laugh—soft, but genuine—and it eases something tight in my chest. She’s still carrying whatever’s weighing her down, I can feel it, but at least the silence between us doesn’t feel like a wall anymore. Just a pause. A breath.

“I’m fine,” I say, quieter now. I catch her gaze and hold it. “Really. You didn’t take too much. I’d tell you if you did.”

She studies me, long enough that I feel it in my bones, then finally gives a small nod.

I take her hand, lifting it, and press a kiss to her knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You won’t break me, Mouse.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t pull away either.

I scoot closer, setting the empty plate on the nightstand. “You sure you’re okay?” I ask again, this time quieter, wary.

She nods. “Come here.”

I crawl up beside her without protest, slipping under the blanket. She slides down next to me, her body stiff for half a second before she lets herself soften into my side. Her back molds to my front, the crown of her head fitting perfectly beneath my chin. I drape an arm over her waist and feel her exhale. My breath catches a little when she relaxes into it.

This—thisI could do every night for the rest of my life.

The hush of the room settles over us, broken only by the faint clatter of dishes downstairs and our quiet breathing. My eyelids grow heavier as the day’s fatigue creeps in, but I fight it off.

Her fingers drift to mine, intertwining like it’s second nature. I feel her press closer. But her breathing is uneven, and I can feel something tight in her frame. She’s not at ease. Not really.

“Aria,” I murmur, not even sure what I want to say next.

Maybe I just want to hear her voice again. Maybe I just want her to remind me this is real.

She doesn’t answer. But she threads our fingers tighter.

I lean in, kiss the side of her head. “You don’t have to say anything. But…”

Her shoulders tense slightly. It’s the smallest thing. If I weren’t holding her, I might have missed it.

I swallow. Then say it anyway. “I think I’m falling for you, Mouse.”

There’s a pause—long enough for my heart to trip over itself. The air between us goes taut, like a bowstring pulled too tight. I half expect her to go still, to pull away. But instead, she lifts my hand—our fingers still laced—and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. Her lips are warm, reverent, almost apologetic.

Then, quietly, she whispers against my skin, “Don’t say ridiculous things.”

I blink. For a heartbeat, it stings. Not because I expected her to say it back, but because something in her tone sounds like she wants to believe it—and doesn’t think she can.

I shift, pressing closer to her back, resting my chin near the curve of her shoulder. “It’s not ridiculous,” I murmur. “I do. Iam.I…I love you.”

She exhales sharply, like the words knocked the wind from her. Her thumb strokes over my hand in slow circles, but she doesn’t speak.

“I know I’m not great at saying what I feel,” I add, voice barely above a whisper, “but it’s not some passing thing. I love you, Aria. Every damn piece of you. Fangs and all.”