"...Warm..." she whispered, as if the word itself might vanish if said too clearly.

One arm, impossibly soft and heavy, tightened around your chest. Her fingers flexed sleepily—possessive, slow. A leg hooked over your hip. She rubbed her cheek into your neck with the weight of someone who had no intention of getting up.

"Don't move," she mumbled, lips grazing your collar. "If you get up now, I’ll melt... into the floor... and you’ll have to carry a sleepy puddle everywhere."

Her hair smelled like vanilla and faint laundry detergent, warm from sleep. You felt her skin—bare and silky smooth—press flush against you, lazy heat radiating from every inch of her.