I wake up to the sound of breathing.
Not snoring. Not loud. Just… present. Warm. Real.
Alex is facing me, eyes still closed, mouth slightly parted. One arm tucked under his pillow, the other half-draped between us like it was reaching in my direction but got shy halfway through.
My heart does this slow, stretching thing in my chest. Like it's remembering how to be gentle.
He looks younger in his sleep. Softer. Less like the guy who disappears into himself and more like the one who held my face when we kissed like I was something delicate.
I don't move.
I just look.
Then his eyes flutter open, and it's over. We're here. Awake. Aware.
"Hey," I whisper, voice scratchy.
He blinks a few times, then… smiles. Just a little. Sleepy. Crooked. Real. "Hey."
We don't move for a beat.
Then:
"Do you usually stare at people while they sleep?"
"Only the cute ones."
His eyes widen, a blush crawling up his neck. "You're so annoying."
"Bold of you to say for someone who let me sleep in their bed."
He laughs under his breath. "Shut up."
It's… nice. Easy, even. For a second.
Then we both shift at the same time and accidentally bonk foreheads.
"Ow—"
"Sorry—"
We both laugh again, more out of nerves than actual humor. He sits up, running a hand through his hair, which only makes it worse. It's sticking up in every direction.
I watch him from my side of the bed.
"So," he says slowly. "Are we…?"
I look at him. Really look at him.
"I think we're something," I say. "Whatever this is, I want it."
He nods, eyes on his lap. "Okay. Me too."
And just like that, it's a thing. Undefined. Soft-edged. Real.
**
We try to share the bathroom and fail spectacularly.
"Move," I say, elbowing him lightly as I try to brush my teeth.
"There's literally a mirror in your room, why do you need this one?" he protests, elbowing back as he runs a comb through his hair.
"You have better lighting!"
He rolls his eyes. "You just want to annoy me."
"Maybe."
He sticks his tongue out in the mirror. "Gross," I mutter through a mouthful of toothpaste.
He shrugs. "You chose this chaos."
I spit, rinse, and smirk at him. "You're lucky you're hot."
He freezes mid-comb. "Did you just—"
"Nope," I say, already leaving the room. "Imagined it."
He follows me out a second later, still holding the comb. "You said I was hot."
"I also said I was imagining it. Could go either way."
"Uh-huh."
He throws a pillow at me.
I dodge it and grin. "Careful. I bite."
He stops, blinking at me with that flushed, flustered look he gets when he's not sure if I'm serious. Which, to be fair, I'm not sure either.
We pause.
Then he mumbles, "Okay," and walks past me—but not before trailing a hand across my back on the way.
**
We spend most of the morning pretending this is easy.
Like we haven't spent months dancing around each other. Like this doesn't terrify both of us.
Like sharing a bed didn't just rearrange something inside me.
But every time our hands brush or our eyes meet too long or I catch him smiling at something I said—that fear softens.
We're figuring it out.
And yeah, it's awkward and new and kinda terrifying.
But it's us.
Whatever us is.
And for now… that's enough.