Page 72 of Archer

Archer moved to the window, peering out before closing the blinds. “Which side do you usually sleep on?”

“The right. By the window.”

“I’ll take the left then. Closer to the door.”

I changed in the bathroom—sleep shorts and a tank top, same as always. Brushed my teeth. Washed my face, then stared at myself in the mirror and tried to calm my racing heart.

This was fine. This was practical. This was about my safety.

Except there was so much more to it than that, and we both knew it.

When I returned, Archer had removed his shoes and sat on my bed. He’d kept his t-shirt and cargo pants on.

“You can’t sleep in that,” I said.

“Why?”

“That’s not comfortable. Archer. At least put on shorts.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Be right back.”

He returned a few minutes later in athletic shorts and his t-shirt. I tried not to notice the way the fabric stretched across his shoulders and around his biceps, or the impressive muscle definition in his legs.

I failed completely.

“So,” I said.

“So.”

“This is weird, right?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Little bit.”

“But also not weird?”

“Also not weird.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Come on. Let’s just get some sleep.”

I pulled back the covers and climbed in.

Archer turned off the lamp and stretched out on top of the comforter. The mattress dipped with his weight. He stayed on his side, careful not to crowd me

“What are you doing?”

He stiffened but didn’t move. “Sleeping.”

“You’re not sleeping on top of the blankets,” I said.

“Sorry. I should’ve done that while you changed.” He sat up. “I can get the things from the other room.

“Absolutely not.” I sat up behind him. “Archer. Stand up.”

He stood, and I flipped the covers back.

“Get in here and lay down or I’m docking your pay.”

His lips quirked slightly, but his eyes remained tight and reluctant.

I waited.