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Summary
“Easy, stunt guy.” Standard’s voice is rough and gravelly with drowsiness as his stubble scrapes against your skin. The shape of each word is hot enough to sear, and you forget how to breathe. “You’re alright.”
But you aren’t. You can’t be, because it’s his arm that's draped around your waist, his chest pressed against your exposed spine. But if he’s behind you, then where…
Only then do your eyes fall to the figure in front of you. Irene is practically buried under the bedding, her face lax with rest. It’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen.