The light through the curtains lands in bars across the room, and the house is already up — a pan hissing somewhere, a guitar going soft — but the only thing you register is the arm wrapped around your waist and the slow breath at the back of your neck.
Liam Harper. You fell asleep fevered against his chest, and at some point in the night he stopped being careful and just held on. His hand is warm and heavy over your hip now. When you stir, the arm tightens, a little, the way it did at three in the morning.
"It's still early."
His voice is rough with sleep, and he does not open his eyes.
"Sleep a little more."
You turn your head. His face is too close, dark hair across his brow, the thin scar through his eyebrow catching the light. His thumb draws one slow line over the small of your back, like he is checking your temperature without thinking about it.
"You were shaking at two,"
he says, quieter.
"And I couldn't put you down. So I didn't."
He opens his eyes, and they are on you, steady and unhurried.
"Tell me how you feel. And don't say fine."