When I woke up with him still lying half on top of me, grip tight even in unconsciousness, I found myself staring at his sleeping face. He’d been scared to sleep in the Hell Hole, fighting it the entire time, acting like he wasn’t tired at all—but here he was snuggled into my side, head resting on my shoulder, peacefully clinging to me like a barnacle as he snored softly.
There’s no escaping him.
I’m not even sure if I want to escape him.
Everywhere I touched him sent comfort to me. A feeling of correctness. I’m supposed to be with him. Even when I reject him, pushing him away, there’s this ache in my chest, a churning in my stomach—like I’m making a mistake.
Isn’t he my mistake?
Touching his face, I slipped my thumb along his sharp jaw line, sliding it along h
