Chapter 38: What Wakes In The Morning
It’s Sunday morning, and Del has been awake for half an hour, staring at the faint light creeping around her curtains. She hadn’t moved and hardly dared to breathe.
At first, she told herself the weight at her waist was just the blanket bunched wrong. Perfectly logical. Except blankets weren’t warm, solid, and… breathing. No, the steady warmth was unmistakably Oliver’s arm, draped over her hip.
That alone, maybe she could’ve rationalized. People rolled in their sleep. Limbs wandered. Fine. But what truly froze her was the very obvious, very undeniable, very awake, and hard length pressed against her lower back.
She swallowed hard, her face burning. She wasn’t sure if she should wiggle away (which risked acknowledging the problem in the worst possible way) or stay perfectly still and pray he'd wake up soon or that he'd roll to the other side.
And as she lay there, the truth she hated admitting, even to herself, was that part of her was hyper-aware of the heat of his body and the way his chest rose and fell behind her, and it was dangerously cozy.
Her lips parted, a strangled whisper slipping out before she could stop it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
And still, Oliver slept on, oblivious. But then, he shifted behind her, letting out a low groan that sent a shiver racing down her spine. His arm tightened, pulling her closer until her back was flush against his chest.
Her heart hammered. She squeezed her eyes shut, torn between embarrassment and the shocking awareness of just how solid he felt against her. Every inch of him radiated warmth that came with extra… equipment.
“Oliver,” she whispered, her voice a squeak of warning more than a word.
No response. His breathing stayed deep, steady, and maddeningly peaceful.
“Oliver,” she tried again, a little firmer this time.
Still nothing. Instead, he shifted. Just a lazy adjustment in his sleep, his hips rolling the barest inch closer, enough to make her suck in a breath. The pressure against her back grew undeniable. A rub which was gentle and unintentional, but oh, there was no mistaking what it was.
Del jolted like she’d touched a live wire. Her entire body lit up.
And then it got escalated. His arm tightened, dragging her in, his hand slipping lower across her waist. The hem of her shirt lifted an inch, maybe two, and suddenly his palm was against bare skin. Warm and large.
She froze, torn between shoving him away and… not? Her stomach flipped. Butterflies, sparks, every cliché she hated—all of them had apparently decided to throw a rave inside her.
That was enough. Before she completely combusted, Del twisted, reaching back with a desperate little shake of his shoulder.
“Oliver,” she hissed, this time less whisper and more panicked plea.
Oliver stirred with a groggy blink, confusion pulling across his features as his eyes opened.
“Del? Why are you….” His question trailed off as it took only a second for the events of last night to come rushing back. Del’s nightmare, her asking him to stay, and the two of them falling asleep side by side.
And then he realized exactly how he was holding her. His arm slipped away quickly.
“Shit—sorry,” he said, sitting up fast, hands raking through his messy hair. His face was flushed, wide-eyed, and clearly mortified. “Del, I swear I didn’t know… My arms… I didn’t do it on purpose. I was asleep.”
Del sat up too, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on her blanket. Her cheeks were burning hot.
“I know,” she muttered. She refused to look at him. “But maybe you should…um…go back to your own bed.”
Oliver scrambled to his feet, but not fast enough. Del’s eyes flicked downward before she could stop herself. Even though his sweatpants were black, the outline was clear. Amazingly too clear. Her breath caught, her mind stuttering.
She tore her gaze away instantly, cheeks blazing, but the image had already burned itself into her thoughts.
Oliver noticed too, and his face went crimson. He yanked at the hem of his shirt as if it might help. “I I’ll go,” he stammered, half-turning toward the door. “And I’m so sorry about that.”
She didn’t answer. He slipped out quickly, the door clicking shut behind him.
Del dropped back against the mattress with a heavy exhale, staring up at the ceiling. Her pulse still thundered in her ears.
What unsettled her wasn’t the fact that it happened because guys woke up like that; she knew. Biology, hormones, whatever. What rattled her was her own reaction. Her stomach had flipped, her heart still raced, and instead of anger or disgust, she felt… curious.
Stupidly, dangerously curious.
Then her brain just reminded her of the whole damn tent in his sweatpants. And not the flimsy, two-sticks-and-a-flap kind of tent either. No, this was more like a full camping set, sturdy enough to withstand a storm.
Her brain betrayed her further, calculating length, weight, and circumference. Why was she suddenly so curious?
She squeezed her eyes shut because the picture had already been stamped onto her brain. Which only made the flutter in her stomach worse.
She groaned silently into her pillow. Curiosity was going to kill her.
Her hand pressed lightly against her chest. Maybe it was just her inexperience. She had no frame of reference, no past encounters to compare this to. Maybe that was why Oliver’s closeness, his body heat, and his sheer presence had left her so disoriented. Her imagination filled in blanks she’d never really let herself think about before.
She turned on her side and pulled the blanket tighter around her. But the questions didn’t stop.
Despite everything, she realized she had slept unusually well. After her nightmares, she usually woke again and again; her body was always braced for another jolt of fear. But last night had been different. With Oliver behind her, she’d drifted into hours of uninterrupted rest.
That comfort unsettled her just as much as it soothed her. The idea of needing him, of her mind relaxing because he was there, made her uneasy. But she couldn’t deny the truth that for the first time, every time she had a nightmare, she felt rested after she’d gone back to sleep.
Her thoughts shifted to the nightmares themselves. They weren’t random. They never were. They always came back around this time of year.
A dull ache settled in her chest. She didn’t need a calendar to remind her; the date carried its own weight. Her parents’ death anniversary was approaching.
Every year, the memories returned like waves she couldn’t stop, bringing the nightmares back with them. No matter how much time passed, those nights still clawed their way into her sleep.
Del closed her eyes, trying to push the heaviness down… but it lingered.