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The afternoon sun was beginning to slant across the living room floor by the time the last of the fried rice had been cleared away. Derek settled onto the large, charcoal-gray sofa, the weight of the day—and the cocktails—settling into his bones.

Olivia had disappeared for a quick refresh, and when she returned, she'd traded the silk for a pair of tiny denim bum shorts and an oversized vintage t-shirt that swallowed her frame. Her hair was still in that high, chaotic ponytail, damp at the nape of her neck, and she smelled like vanilla and shampoo.

She looked soft. She looked like a girl who had finally let her guard down, and Derek felt a fierce, protective ache tighten in his chest. He watched her, wondering if she’d choose the armchair or the opposite end of the couch. Not that he'd mind where she sat, he was just happy to be welcome in her space again, but when she moved toward him and sat close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, he felt like he’d just won a championship he didn't deserve.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said, her voice dropping into a comfortable, post-meal hum.

Derek grinned, his thumb tracing the edge of the watch Isabella had given him. “I wasn't going to start without you. I’ve been mentally preparing for this ‘educational’ experience on Big mouth you promised me.”

Olivia laughed, grabbing a velvet throw pillow and tucking it under her arm. “Whatever. Just remember, laughing at the serious or awkward parts will not be tolerated. I’m a very strict viewer.”

Derek mimed zipping his lips shut, dramatically "throwing away the key" into the corner of the room. Olivia rolled her eyes, a playful glimmer in her gaze, and clicked the remote.

As the theme song of Big Mouth filled the room, the world outside Olivia’s apartment seemed to vanish, but as the minutes ticked by, her sharp commentary began to fade. The combination of a full stomach, the potent drinks Derek had mixed, and the sheer exhaustion of the holiday started to take its toll. 

Her head began to bob, her blinks growing longer and heavier. Derek watched her through the corner of his eye, his pulse jumping. Baby steps, he reminded himself, the words a mantra in his head. He stayed perfectly still, but slowly, tentatively, he draped his arm along the back of the couch behind her head. He didn't touch her yet—he just carved out a space for her to lean into.

When she finally slumped against him, her shoulder resting against his, Derek’s breath hitched. He moved his hand, his fingers grazing the soft cotton of her shirt as he settled his palm on her shoulder. He began to stroke there, his thumb moving in slow, rhythmic circles.

Olivia let out a tiny, contented sigh, her body turning into liquid as she leaned further into his heat. Boldness, sparked by the sheer rightness of the moment, took over. He gently guided her closer until her head was tucked firmly into the crook of his shoulder. She smelled so damn good it was dizzying.

Then, she moved. With the fluid grace of someone halfway to a dream, Olivia shifted, stretching out across the length of the sofa. She turned her head and settled it directly onto Derek’s lap, using his thigh as a pillow while her eyes stayed fixed on the flickering screen.

“You okay?” Derek asked. His voice came out raw and hoarse, a jagged sound that betrayed exactly how much her touch was affecting him. Shit.

“Yeah,” Olivia murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “Just... tired.”

Derek didn't trust himself to speak again. Instead, he reached down, his large hand looking dark and rugged against the strands of her hair. He began to stroke it—starting at her forehead and smoothing the hair back toward her ponytail, over and over. He completely forgot about the television. The hormone monsters on the screen were nothing compared to the storm in his own blood.

He watched her features soften in the blue light of the TV. He watched the way her lashes finally stilled against her cheeks and her breathing deepened into a slow, steady rhythm. She was asleep. On him.

Derek felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. He didn't move an inch, almost terrified that even a heavy breath would wake her and end the best Christmas he’d ever had.

In her sleep, Olivia shifted, her cheek pressing firmer against his denim-clad thigh as she let out a long, fluttering sigh. The small, unconscious movement sent a jolt of pure electricity straight through Derek’s system.

He felt the sudden, familiar tightening in his gut, and a heat that had nothing to do with the cocktails or the warm apartment as his dick grew hard. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, his jaw tightening until it ached. Not now, he silently pleaded with himself. But the physical reaction was a stubborn, primal thing—a visceral reminder of exactly how long it had been since he’d held her and how much he’d hungered for the weight of her body against his.

He almost groaned, the sound catching in the back of his throat. Carefully, agonizingly slow, he shifted his weight back into the cushions of the sofa, trying to create an inch of breathing room without dislodging her head. He was concerned that she’d wake up, sense the tension in his muscles, feel his erection and realize exactly how affected he was. 

He didn't want to ruin the peace. He didn't want her to think he was only there for the casual side of things. Not again. To distract his racing brain, he reached for the remote with a hand that wasn't quite steady. He thumbed the volume down until the animated voices of the show were just a low, indistinct murmur—a white-noise backdrop to the sound of her breathing.

He forced his eyes toward the television, staring at the flickering colors of the screen without seeing a single frame. His true focus remained on the woman in his lap. His hand, acting on a will of its own, returned to the crown of her head. His fingers moved with practiced gentleness, weaving through the silken strands of her hair, tracing the curve of her ear, and smoothing the stray baby hairs at her temple. 

Every time she shifted or let out a soft, sleeping breath, his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was a man in agony, but it was a sweet, torturous kind of pain. He found himself wishing the clock would just stop—that the afternoon would stretch into an eternal loop of her sleeping and him touching.

He wasn't ready for the real world to start again. He wasn't ready to stop being the man she trusted enough to fall asleep on. So he stayed frozen, a wayward bartender turned silent guardian, watching over her dreams while he fought a quiet, losing war with his own pulse.