Vivienne
I wake up to a heartbeat.
Literally.
A slow, steady thump under my ear. Warmth. Fabric. Muscles. Wait—
No.
No.
I crack one eye open.
His hoodie. His chest. His arm around me like it belongs there.
I'm still in Damien Ashford's bed.
Correction: on Damien Ashford.
Oh god.
Oh god.
I lift my head just enough to check the damage. My hair is everywhere — we're talking Medusa levels of chaos — and there's definitely a suspiciously damp patch on his hoodie right where my mouth had been.
No. No no no no no.
I drooled on him?
Kill me.
Throw me into the Thames. I can't recover from this.
"Morning," he says, voice rough and stupidly hot, eyes still closed like this is normal.
I freeze. "Did I—? I mean, was I—? Did I—?"
"You snored a little."
I gasp. "Damien!"
"And drooled."
"No!"
"Yes."
I hide my face in his chest and groan. "I hate myself. I hate the world. I hate you most of all."
"You talk a lot for someone who was dead asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I woke up because my soul left my body in shame."
"Your soul left at 6 a.m. when you kicked me in the leg."
I pause. "Did I really?"
"Twice."
"Oops."
He opens his eyes now, looking all smug and beautiful and way too calm for someone who just got used as a pillow and a tissue.
But he doesn't move.
Neither do I.
Instead, I whisper, "I didn't mean to sleep here."
"I know."
"I just… you were warm and I was cold and you weren't pushing me away and—"
"It's fine, Viv."
My heart stutters.
Because he means it.
He didn't mind. He let me cling and drool and snore and steal his warmth and his hoodie and everything else, and he meant it when he said it's fine.
"Still hate you," I mumble.
"Sure you do."
"Don't get smug."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I glance up at him, already smiling like an idiot.
And he's looking at me.
Really looking.
Like maybe he doesn't mind being looked at like this either.