I didn't mean to fall asleep on his side of the couch.
To be fair, I also didn't mean to marry the wrong twin, so really, this was just another masterpiece in my ongoing collection of bad life decisions.
But when I woke up, my cheek squished against Adrian's shoulder—warm, solid, and unfortunately enticing—I knew this wasn't a small misstep.
This was a full-blown cuddling felony.
His arm was around me.
My leg was over his.
And we were… spooning.
Spooning.
Spooning.
As in, the gateway drug to real feelings.
⸻
I blinked rapidly, trying to detangle myself without waking the man who slept like a fallen angel with emotional constipation. But then—
"Stop moving," he mumbled, his voice gravelly, sleep-rough.
I froze.
His arm tightened just slightly, fingers curling around my wrist like it was muscle memory. "You'll wake up the headache."
"…The headache?"
"You," he said, eyes still closed. "You're my headache."
Rude.
But also—his voice was so low and warm I briefly considered letting him keep the arm. For science.
"I'm not a headache," I whispered back. "I'm a delight."
He cracked one eye open. "Debatable."
I huffed and tried to wiggle free. That's when I slipped—my leg tangled with the throw blanket, and I landed fully on top of him with a thud.
His arms instinctively caught me.
Our noses were inches apart.
His eyes? Wide open now.
Mine? Probably screaming SOS in Morse code.
And then… neither of us moved.
⸻
The world felt paused.
Just the two of us.
The soft thrum of rain against the window.
The quiet rhythm of our breaths.
And this stupid, stupid tension that clung like static.
His gaze dropped to my lips.
And oh no.
OH NO.
"I—" I started, but nothing useful came out.
He didn't say anything either. Just studied me, the way people study old love letters they didn't know they'd kept.
My heart pounded so loudly I was convinced the neighbors could hear it. And for a moment, I couldn't remember why we had rules in the first place.
Then his phone buzzed.
Reality crash-landed.
I flinched. Rolled off him. Scrambled to the other side of the couch, where safety and emotional denial lived.
He sat up slowly, like nothing happened. Like he hadn't just wrapped around me like a weighted blanket with commitment issues.
He grabbed his phone, muttered a gruff "Work," and disappeared into the other room.
⸻
I spent the rest of the morning pretending I wasn't flustered.
I also spent an hour Googling "how to emotionally divorce someone you're fake married to but accidentally spooned and now might have feelings for."
Spoiler alert: There were no helpful results.
⸻
That evening, Nari FaceTimed me mid-anxiety spiral.
I was still on the couch. In my "Emotionally Fragile but Fashionable" hoodie. Clutching a pillow like it owed me emotional support.
"You look like you witnessed a crime," she said. "Did Adrian smile at you or something?"
"Worse," I groaned. "We cuddled."
Her eyes went wide. "Voluntarily?!"
"Accidentally."
"Same thing when hot people are involved," she said, chomping on chips.
"It was one time!"
"One time is how it starts, babe. You're one cozy night away from naming your hypothetical children."
I stared at her.
"Callie…" she said seriously. "Are you catching feelings?"
"No."
Pause.
"…Maybe."
Pause.
"YES, AND I HATE IT."
She squealed like I'd just told her Santa was real. "You like the broody businessman! I KNEW it!"
"I do not! I mean—he has good arms. And a tragic backstory probably. And he makes toast right."
"You're in trouble."
I groaned and let my head fall into the pillow.
I was.
Deep, dangerous, touch-hungry trouble.
⸻
That night, I found another note on the whiteboard.
RULE 2A:
No sharing a couch after 10 PM.
Unless there's a natural disaster.
(Couch cuddle = Not a drill.)
– A.T.
And written underneath in my handwriting:
Define natural disaster.
…Asking for a friend.