Harper
I woke up on the sofa with a crick in my neck and sunlight cutting across my face.
The blanket on the floor had been folded into a square so precise it looked ironed. The pillow sat on top like a period at the end of a sentence.
I stretched. My shoulders popped. For about four blissful seconds I was just a girl with sore muscles on a nice sofa.
Then the last thing he'd said landed on me like a cartoon piano.
Dirt. Pine trees. And you.
The same dream. He'd had the same dream. Which meant he'd seen the forest floor. The kissing. The sounds I made. The way my fingers clawed into the dirt while his mouth traveled down my—
I shoved my face into the pillow and screamed.
Vane was at the kitchen counter. Tank top. Sweats. He was cooking eggs like the walls of his bedroom weren't sti
