Rosamund
I stared at the evidence. At my pillow, sitting squarely on his side. At the empty, untouched expanse of my designated half. At the damning trail of rumpled sheets that mapped my unconscious journey across the bed with the subtlety of a muddy footprint.
My face reddened, and I lowered my gaze, sputtering.
"That doesn't—I was asleep! I didn't—it was unconscious! It doesn't count!"
"So the rules only apply when you're awake?" He was fully grinning now. "That seems unfair."
"Stop smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"I can see you smiling, Nevan."
"The mask makes it difficult to confirm."
I snatched the pillow from his side of the bed and threw it at his face. He caught it one-handed, still grinning, and I turned away from him before he could see that the heat on my face, that even now, even standing across the room in a twisted chemise with my dignity in ruins, my body was still humming from the feeling of his against mine.
