The world was muffled in white. Snow pressed against the windowpanes, softening every sound. Inside, the room held the warmth of shared blankets and the steady weight of Malcolm's arm draped across Iyisha's waist.
His breath stirred faintly against her hair. The faint scent of soap and gun oil lingered around him, grounding and sharp all at once.
Iyisha woke first. She stayed still, afraid to shift even an inch. She wanted to savor the heat of his arm, the solidity of his chest behind her, yet the fear of what would follow kept her rigid.
She counted his breaths to steady her nerves, aware of every knuckle resting lightly above her hip.
Her thigh brushed against him and she froze. Heat shot up her face. She felt the hardness there, undeniable, and the memory of that night flashed across her mind.
Desire cut into her, tangled with shame and longing. Her chest ached. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself to stay still, pretending sleep might hold him there.
