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I’ll never let you be happy. Words said by her stepfather over a year ago. Those words never letting her get close to anyone, every guy to ever touch her was supposed to be just a hookup—just fucking. Logan was supposed to be just that until he wasn’t.
The sheets of the unmade twin bed tangled to her ankles, exposing both their naked skin to the sunlight invading his loft—his chest pressed to her back, more showing than hiding.
Her fingers running through the protruding veins in his arm—trapped between her and the mattress—not a sign she’s awake, but that her mind thinks of him and him alone when she allows herself these tiny moments to savor what happiness feels like.
Freya adored his veins, with her eyes closed she could follow the ramifications of words she could spell with the feeling of them, and he was the reader of this declaration—light touch that lets him know she loves him.