She’s fighting for her life under my arm, and I’m pretending not to notice.

Has been for twenty minutes now. Maybe more. I stopped checking the time after ten.

In her defense, it’s a fair fight. I’m 6’4, built like a tank, and apparently I sleep like I’m in a hostage scenario. One arm slung around her waist like I’m securing a duffel bag full of government secrets. The sheets are kicked halfway off the bed, the sun’s leaking through the windows, and I’ve got my head buried in a pillow like I’m avoiding the feds.

And still, she’s wriggling. Not aggressively. She’s too polite for that. Just these gentle, fruitless little shifts like she thinks if she’s subtle enough, she can Houdini her way out of my grip without waking me.

Which is funny, because I haven’t been asleep for the past—glances at her reflection in the TV screen—yeah, twenty-three minutes.

She groans quietly. I feel her forehead thunk against my shoulder. Dramatic.

“Calder,” she whispers, tugging at my arm like it’s not twice the size of her thigh. “Let go.”

I grunt. Shift a little. Tighten my hold.

“Calder.”

Nothing.

“You’re—literally—trapping me.”

Still nothing. She sighs, mutters something about Stockholm syndrome, and tries again. This time I crack an eye open and look at her—hair a mess, face flushed, still wearing my shirt from last night.

I like her best like this. Tired. Unfiltered. Still a little soft from sleep and pissed at me for existing.

“You done?” I mutter, voice like gravel.

“You’re holding me hostage.”

“Correction. I’m holding you. The -age is optional.”

She glares, then pokes my chest like it’s going to hurt. (It doesn’t.)

I drop my head back onto the pillow and smile into it.

She can fight all she wants. She’s not going anywhere.

Not until I say so.