It was late. The moonlight pooled into Luke’s room through the half-open blinds, casting slats of silver across his chest as he laid beside you. You were tucked under his arm, your cheek resting against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths. Everything felt perfect. Too perfect. That’s what terrified you.

Your thoughts were spinning faster than your heartbeat, and he felt it. He always did. Luke turned his head slightly, looking down at you, his thumb brushing over your bare arm softly.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” he whispered, his voice hoarse with sleep.