Dane's POV:
She's going to be cold.
That's the first thought that anchors itself in my head as I stand over the bed.
Her hair is still damp, darker where it clings to her neck and shoulders, the ends curling slightly where it hasn't dried.
She's curled on her side, knees drawn up, breathing slow and even, exhaustion finally pulling her under.
I pull my loose T-shirt from the chair and ease it over her head, careful not to wake her. It hangs off her frame, swallowing her whole, the hem brushing her thighs.
She doesn't stir. Just shifts slightly, like she's chasing warmth even in sleep.
I tell myself it's practical.
I tell myself it's enough.
I look at her one last time before turning away.
She shouldn't have done that last night.
She didn't have to make it her problem.
She didn't have to take her clothes off, didn't have to press her body against mine like that, didn't have to take the weight of my pain and make it hers.
I should have stopped her.
