Page 100 of Just for the Plot

“He was waiting for me.”

“How nice.” She yawns and leans her head against my shoulder. “I’m exhausted.”

“Same.” I put my arm around her and she snuggles into my chest, and that’s where she remains until we reach our apartment building.

For a moment, I think I’m going to have to carry her up, but she stirs awake and takes my hand as I walk her into the building and to the elevator.

“Can I just come to your place?” she asks on another yawn.

“Sure,” I say, welcoming the idea.

“Thank you.”

When the elevator doors part, I help her to my apartment, where she heads straight to my bathroom.

“Let me grab you a shirt. I, uh, I grabbed a few things the other day for you in case you ever decided to stay the night. There’s face wash and a toothbrush and anything else you might need in there. Drawer on the right is yours.”

“I adore you,” she says right before she shuts the bathroom door.

Excited but also exhausted, I grab a Bombers shirt she can borrow and then quickly change out of my clothes, leaving me in just my boxer briefs. I plug my phone in and then once she opens the door, the bathroom smelling like fresh toothpaste, I hand her my shirt.

“Thank you,” she says as she goes into my room and starts to undress.

Jesus.

I quickly shut the door to the bathroom, because I might be infatuated with her, but I’m not about to take a peek when I’m not offered a show.

So I get ready for bed while she gets changed. I take a few extra minutes just to calm myself before I exit the bathroom, where I find her already in bed, curled up.

That’s what I want.

Right there.

Her, in my bed, no one else’s. Just the sight of her under my blankets, sleeping on my pillow, gives me fucking hope.

Turning off the lights, I slip under the covers as well and turn toward her, only for her to turn her back toward me and then push up against my chest.

Does she want me to snuggle?

What would she do if I put my arm around her? Would she care?

Would she even notice in her state?

I bite down on the corner of my mouth, contemplating until she answers the question for me. She reaches for my arm and places it around her waist, pulling herself in even closer.

And then in the sweetest, softest voice, she says, “Night, Bennett.”

Fuck, this is amazing.

Pressing my face into her hair, I say, “Night, Bower.”

“Death,” Bower says as she appears in the living room, her hair sticking up in all directions, a wince across her expression, and a light smear of mascara under each eye.

I chuckle as I lean against the counter of my kitchen in a pair of sweatpants, sipping my coffee.

“What can I get you?”

She plops down on the couch and says, “A shovel for my grave.”