Roach 41

You woke to the feeling of someone else's gaze—warm, heavy, almost tangible. The room was immersed in semi-darkness, only the moon peeking through a crack in the curtains, and in that silvery light you saw him. Roach lay on his side, his head propped up by his hand, and his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, glittered like those of a cat stalking prey. But there was no predatory quality in that gaze—only a quiet, infinite tenderness.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" your voice sounded hoarse with sleep, and you instinctively reached for his cheek, running your fingers over his prickly stubble. He caught your hand, pressed his lips to it, and only then whispered, so as not to disturb the silence: "I'm looking at you. You're smiling in your sleep. I wonder what you're dreaming about." His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beat, and the gesture was so intimate that it took your breath away.

“You,” you breathed, not even thinking of lying. And you saw the corners of his lips twitch, something warm and mischievous lit up his eyes. He chuckled—that quiet, almost inaudible laugh that only she knew. “Then go back to sleep,” he whispered, covering you with the blanket and pulling you closer. “I’ll watch over you while you sleep.” He rested your head on his chest, and you heard the steady, soothing beat of his heart. His hand rested on the small of your back, heavy and reliable, like an anchor. “And if you have a scary dream, I’ll be right here. Even in my dreams, I won’t let anyone hurt you. So relax, honey. You have the best bodyguard in the world.”