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James watched the half glass of red wine begin to get heavier and heavier in Miranda's hand as her eyes drifted shut, long lashes kissing her cheeks like he longed to. She was curled up and fitted in against him on the couch with a white throw pillow – that was now in real danger of becoming pink– hugged to her stomach while the movie she'd picked played on unwatched. He wasn't watching anymore either, he realised. Instead he was enraptured by the gentle rise and fall of her peaceful breathing against him. Stubbled chin tucked against the top of her head, he drank in the gentle scent of something vanilla and spicy that made his stomach flip every time he caught a trace of it. The worst thing was the way it lingered on his jacket and in his thoughts the days after parting, making him miss her even more.
James considered the dark head nestled in against him, wine-blushed ear to his chest, and wondered if tonight was finally the night that the staccato of his heart was going to give him away. Meanwhile her rich espresso brown hair slipped between his fingers like silk as he combed them through it over and over, like he did any time he got the chance. He had to smile as he reached down and gently eased the delicate glass from her manicured hand and a small knot formed between her brows. It was easily soothed away by a barely-there kiss right atop the furrow. It was only in moments like this, when she couldn't catch him at it, that he dared to be as sappy and affectionate as he wished he could be every minute of every day. Even now he ran the risk of ruining this thing between them if she ever realised how much he actually cared for her.
Because falling in love wasn't part of their agreement.