The air felt heavier than usual, like a weighted blanket pressing over Erin's chest. Her breaths came in shallow pants, her cheeks flushed with lingering heat, and a tremble danced along her fingers as she blinked her eyes open.
The dream still clung to her like honey—thick, sticky, and impossibly vivid.
Her heart thundered with remnants of phantom touches, lips that weren't real, fingers that hadn't truly grazed her skin, and that voice—his voice—whispering sinful things into her ear.
It was just a dream. Just a stupid, feverish dream.
She exhaled shakily, trying to gather her bearings and roll to her side when—
A warmth beside her made her freeze.
Her eyes shot open, her body stiffening completely as she slowly turned her head.
There he was. Xander. Sleeping. Right next to her.
Except… not in his usual, upright, sharp-edged self.
He lay on his side, bare-chested, an arm folded beneath his head, his features softened in sleep, his breaths even and unhurried. The morning light poured in through the half-closed curtains, tracing the curve of his jaw and the dip between his collarbones.
And Erin—oh goddess, she was in his bed.
Not on top of the duvet. Not awkwardly sprawled across the edge as if she'd collapsed there by accident. No.
She was under the covers. Her head resting on his pillow.
Panic surged through her like a bolt of lightning.
What. The. Hell.
Before she could scramble backward or scream into the void, Xander's eyes cracked open, as if her alarm had stirred him. He didn't jolt upright or act surprised. Instead, he blinked once, then twice, then let his gaze settle fully on her.
"…Morning," he muttered, voice husky with sleep, lips curving faintly. "Finally awake?"
She sat up instantly, clutching the blanket to her chest like a shield. "Wh-what—how did I—why am I here?"
He yawned. Then, to her absolute horror, leaned onto one elbow and looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You came here yourself."
"I what?!" Her voice cracked.
"You walked in around… I don't know. Three-ish?" he said, rubbing his temple. "Didn't say a word. Just climbed right into bed, curled up next to me like it was the most natural thing in the world."
"That's insane! I would never—"
"You did."
"I—I don't remember that at all!" she snapped. "I was in my own bed. I clearly remember that."
"You were sleepwalking," he said matter-of-factly. "I didn't think you were the type, but hey. Guess you were thinking of me even in your dreams."
She gasped, color flooding her face. "I was not—!"
He raised a brow. "You were moaning in your sleep. Want to guess whose name you said?"
Her mouth dropped open in mortified silence.
"You're lying," she said, though her voice barely came out.
"I'm really not," he replied smoothly, stretching just a little too leisurely. "Made it very hard to stay composed, hearing my name like that from you."
Erin made a strangled noise and looked away, her hand flying to her mouth.
It all aligned a little too well. That dream. The heat. The moans she thought had been internal. The reason he wasn't in the bathroom this time—he'd already heard her before she woke.
"This is a nightmare," she whispered.
"No," he said with a low chuckle. "That part already ended. This is the morning after."
She whipped her head toward him, glare sharp enough to stab. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"I am," he admitted easily. "Can you blame me?"
She threw the covers off and stormed toward the door, but his voice followed her.
"Hey, Erin?"
She hesitated.
He sat up fully now, the sheets pooling around his waist. "Next time… you could just ask."
Her stomach twisted.
"I—what does that even mean?" she stammered.
"It means," he said, his voice dropping into that maddeningly calm register, "if you want to be in my bed again, you don't have to wait until you're asleep."
"Argh!" she growled, throwing the nearest pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, smirking like the devil himself.
Fleeing to the bathroom, Erin clutched her chest as she walked briskly down the hallway, mentally replaying every second of what just happened.
Why did her body still feel warm? Why did his words cling to her like silk threads wrapping around her throat? And most importantly—why didn't she hate it?
She shook her head. No.
She needed to focus. She needed to remember who she was and what she came here to do.
Yet, as her fingers brushed her lips—lips that hadn't even been kissed in the dream—she realized something even more dangerous:
Her imagination wasn't even half as intense as the real thing.
And Xander Volkov was becoming a temptation she might no longer be strong enough to resist.