Heather's head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that pulsed behind her eyes, each beat a tiny hammer against her skull. She groaned, the sound muffled by the soft, overly warm pillow she instinctively clutched.
The lingering warmth was a welcome comfort, a fuzzy blanket against the sharp edges of her headache, and she drifted back towards sleep, only to find the pillow was far too firm, too alive.
Rhys's limbs felt heavy, pleasantly so, as if he were encased in a warm, comforting cloud. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so deeply, so peacefully. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing a blurry, unfamiliar ceiling.
For a disorienting moment, he didn't recognize the room, its soft, pastel walls and scattered plush toys a stark contrast to his own minimalist bedroom. Then, he felt it—the soft, undeniable curve of a body pressed against his, the gentle rise and fall of a breath against his chest.
His breath hitched, his heart skipping a beat. It wasn't a pillow. It was Heather. Her face was buried in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, her legs tangled with his, her warm skin a startling contrast to the cool morning air.
A wave of heat flushed through him, a jolt of pure, unadulterated panic, and he cursed inwardly, silently berating himself for his carelessness. He had to get out of here.
Heather's fingers twitched behind him, the slight movement sending a jolt of electricity through his spine, and he stiffened, his muscles tensing. Where was his shirt? He scanned the room, his eyes darting across the cluttered floor, finding his clothes and Heather's discarded top lying in a heap, tangled like forgotten secrets. Heather's top?
A knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach, a cold dread creeping through his veins. He carefully lifted the edge of the blanket, his heart pounding against his ribs, confirming his worst fear: she was only in her underwear, the delicate lace a stark reminder of their intimate proximity.
"It's cold..." Heather murmured, her voice thick with sleep, shifting closer, her breath warm against his chest. "Warm..."
Rhys held his breath, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. He felt the rise and fall of her chest against him, the gentle pressure of her limbs, and a surge of unwanted desire, sharp and undeniable, coursed through him. He had to look away, had to remember they were friends, that this was a mistake, a terrible, bewildering mistake.
Heather's eyes fluttered open, her gaze landing on the broad expanse of a man's chest. Not a pillow. Rhys. Panic flared, hot and sharp, and she scrambled back, pushing him off the bed with a startled cry that ripped through the quiet room.
Rhys landed with a thud, his back hitting the plush carpet, his eyes wide and disoriented, his mind struggling to catch up with the sudden chaos.
"Rhys?" she whispered, her voice trembling, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "What... what are you doing here?"
Her gaze dropped, her eyes widening in horror, and her cheeks burned with a blush that spread across her face like wildfire. She was naked, or nearly so, the thin fabric of her underwear offering little protection against the sudden exposure.
The blanket, her only shield, was clutched tightly to her chest, her knuckles white. Her eyes darted to the floor, where her bra and top lay tangled with Rhys's clothes, a chaotic jumble of fabric that whispered of a night she couldn't remember.
A wave of heat flushed through her, a burning shame that mingled with the lingering confusion, and she cursed inwardly, silently berating herself. Stupid, stupid girl.
"What the...?" She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and mortification, her voice laced with a hint of accusation. "What the heck are you doing in my room? In your boxers?"
Rhys scrambled to his feet, his face flushed, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. "I... I fell asleep," he stammered, his voice rough with sleep and panic. "I was waiting for you to fall asleep, and I guess I drifted off."
"Drifted off?" Heather's voice rose, though she kept it hushed, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Without a shirt? And you let me sleep without a top?"
He picked up her clothes and his, his fingers brushing against the soft lace of her bra, sending another jolt of panic through him. "I don't remember taking them off," he said, handing her the clothes, his eyes avoiding hers. "Here. I'll turn around. Just... get dressed."
Heather grabbed the clothes, her eyes still wide with disbelief, her body trembling slightly. "If you dare turn around," she warned, her voice laced with a dangerous undertone, "I will kill you."
He turned, the image of her flushed and vulnerable burned into his mind, a haunting reminder of their unexpected intimacy.
He watched her reflection in the mirror, the way her shoulders trembled as she pulled on her clothes, her movements stiff and awkward. He looked away, his conscience pricking him like a thousand tiny needles.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
Heather finished dressing, her movements stiff and deliberate, her face a mask of carefully controlled emotions. "It's fine," she said, though her voice betrayed her unease, her words laced with a forced nonchalance. "It's... awkward, but we didn't do anything."
"Yeah," Rhys agreed, his voice barely a whisper, but the unspoken tension hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.
"I shouldn't have drunk so much," Heather muttered, running a hand through her disheveled hair, her eyes filled with self-reproach. "I feel like an idiot."
"Don't," Rhys said, his voice soft, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "It was an accident."
The tantalizing smell of bacon wafted up from downstairs, a stark contrast to the tension in the room. "Breakfast," Heather said, a flicker of relief in her eyes, a welcome distraction. "Come on. Might as well eat before you go."
Downstairs, Marjorie's eyes twinkled with amusement, her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Good morning, you two. Slept well, Rhys?"
"Good morning Auntie Maggie." Rhys replied, his face still flushed, his eyes avoiding hers.
"Yeah, fine," Heather said, avoiding her aunt's gaze, her cheeks still burning with a lingering blush.
"So, are you two official now?" Aunt Maggie teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"What? No!" Heather said, a little too quickly, her voice laced with a hint of panic.
"As if." Rhys retorted, but a flicker of something unreadable, a fleeting shadow of longing, passed across his face before he quickly masked it with a casual smile.
"Now, now," Tony said, patting Rhys's shoulder, his eyes filled with a gentle understanding. "Let's eat."
"So, Rhys," Tony began, breaking the strained silence as he poured himself another cup of coffee, "how's the new album coming along? Any exciting developments?"
"It's going well, Uncle Tony," Rhys replied, his voice a little too loud, a little too enthusiastic. "We're just finishing up a few tracks. The music video shoot is next week, and then we're off to Onyx City."
"Onyx City? That's quite a trip," Marjorie commented, her eyes twinkling as she watched the subtle interactions between Heather and Rhys. "Heather, dear, have you ever been to Onyx City?"
Heather shook her head, her eyes fixed on her plate. "No, Aunt Maggie. I haven't."
"It's beautiful," Tony said, his voice warm. "You should go sometime. The beaches are stunning."
"Maybe," Heather murmured, pushing a piece of bacon around her plate. She couldn't shake the feeling of Rhys's warm skin against hers, the lingering scent of his cologne in her hair.
"You know," Marjorie said, her voice casual, "I was thinking of taking Dave to the park later. It's such a lovely day. Perhaps you two would like to join us?"
Rhys's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of panic crossing his face. "Oh, I wish we could, Aunt Maggie, but I have a meeting with our manager this afternoon," he said quickly, his voice laced with a forced regret.
"No problem, dear. Well, another time then." Marjorie replied with a smile.
The silence returned, heavier this time, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and the soft gurgling of baby Dave in his high chair.
"This bacon is delicious, Aunt Maggie," Rhys said, his voice strained as he forced a smile. "You always make the best breakfast."
"Thank you, Rhys," Marjorie replied, her voice soft. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."
Heather glanced at Rhys, her eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and unspoken questions. He met her gaze briefly, then quickly looked away, his cheeks flushed.
"I should probably get going," Rhys said, pushing his chair back from the table. "I don't want to be late for my meeting."
"Of course," Tony said, patting him on the shoulder. "Take care on your way there."
"I will," Rhys said, giving them a quick smile before turning to Heather. "See you later, Heather."
"Yeah, see you," Heather replied, her voice barely a whisper.
As Rhys walked towards the door, Heather felt a pang of disappointment, a strange sense of loss. She wanted to ask him what had happened, to understand the confusion that swirled within her. But she held her tongue, afraid of what she might hear.
Once Rhys was gone, Marjorie turned to Heather, her eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright, dear?" she asked, her voice gentle. "You seem a little… distracted."
"I'm fine, Auntie," Heather said, forcing a smile. "Just a bit tired, I guess."
"Well, you know you can always talk to me," Marjorie said, reaching across the table to squeeze Heather's hand. "About anything."
Heather nodded, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Auntie. I know."
But as she cleared the breakfast dishes, the image of Rhys lying beside her, his warm skin against hers, kept replaying in her mind. She couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed, that their friendship had taken an unexpected turn. And she wasn't sure what to do about it.