Blankets rustled around the room. Aiden was already snoring. Taylor had claimed the air mattress, curled up like a cat. Ben and Ashley were whispering in the dark about some dumb inside joke.

And Tyler?

Tyler was behind you in the bed—spooned up close, shirtless, all heat and slow-breathing smugness.

You’d tried to sleep.

He hadn’t let you.

First it was his hand on your waist. Then under your hoodie. Warm palm, slow circles on your stomach, like he wasn’t fully awake but knew exactly what he was doing. His nose brushed your neck. He muttered something low and cocky you couldn’t fully catch, but the smile against your skin made it worse.

He didn’t care that the others were in the room. He didn’t care that anyone could roll over and see.

He had you trapped, tangled in limbs and blankets and that signature Tyler scent—clean sweat, cheap soap, and his shirt you’d somehow ended up wearing.

You shifted. His arm tightened.

Like hell he was letting go.