She’s in the bathroom when I step out of the shower, towel slung low, hair dripping. I lean against the doorframe, watching her in the mirror as she dabs some overpriced potion on her face. Smells expensive. Looks unnecessary.

Still. I want in.

“Gimme that,” I say, taking the bottle from her hand.

She raises a brow. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“Don’t care. We’re bonding. Lather me up, pretty girl.”

“You mean apply it?”

“Same thing.” I smirk, chin lifted. “What? Scared I’ll sue if I break out?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

But she does it—fingers gentle, careful like I’m something breakable. I close my eyes. Let her.

She dries my hair next, towel ruffling through it while I lean into the touch like an addict. She hums under her breath, off-key, and I almost fall asleep standing.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re planning something.”

“I am. Planning to fall face-first into your tits.”

She laughs—soft, real—and it hits me harder than a bullet. I should sleep on the floor. I always do.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she pulls back the covers and looks at me like I belong there.

And I do. Only because she’s in it.

I slide in beside her, wrap my arm around her waist, fingers in her hair.

“You smell like my shampoo,” she whispers.

I bury my face in her neck. “You smell like my future.”

She stills. Heart skipping.

“Don’t overthink it,” I murmur. “Just means I’m not going anywhere.”

And I won’t. Not now. Not ever.

I’d kill for her.

But I’d die soft, a thousand times over, just to fall asleep like this.