This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

She was out cold.

Curled against me in nothing but my shirt and those thigh-high socks—bare legs tangled with mine, lips parted, breath soft where it kissed my collarbone.

Yeah, I was staring. Sue me.

She looked ruined in the best way. Not messy—wrecked. Like someone who'd been thoroughly adored and then wrapped in something soft to sleep it off. My shirt. My bed.

And I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

6:53 PM.

The sky outside was dipped in indigo, the air turning cooler, the light bluer. Like even the day hadn't caught up with what we'd done. We still had time.

She shifted slightly—one sock-clad leg sliding higher up mine, lace teasing bare skin. No panties. Just my shirt. And all mine.

I should've let her sleep. But I missed her.

So I leaned down and kissed her knee first, the skin soft and warm beneath my lips where it peeked out from the hem of my shirt. Just a light press. She didn't stir, just sighed softly in her sleep.

Then her inner thigh, following the line of the stocking upwards, right where the lace top of that dangerous garment met her bare skin. My own breath hitched at the sheer intimacy of it, the implied vulnerability. Still, only the faintest murmur from her, a slight shift closer to my warmth.

Then her ribs, just beneath the swell of her chest, where my shirt gaped slightly as she breathed in and out. The scent of her skin, mingled with my own on the fabric, was dizzyingly intoxicating.

Then her sternum, right over her steadily beating heart, a slow, deliberate press of my lips.

Finally, I kissed the corner of her mouth—just a feather-light tease.

"Camille," I whispered. "Time to wake up, pretty girl."

She stirred, eyes slowly blinking open, brow furrowing.

"Wait—what time is it?" she murmured, voice rough, still soft with sleep.

"Just past seven," I said casually.

Panic.

She sat bolt upright, clutching the shirt to her chest. "Seven? AM? Oh my God—I stayed all night? My mom, Benj—they'll kill me—"

I laughed, brushing a piece of hair from her face.

"Easy there. Seven PM, baby."

She blinked. Processing. Then collapsed back with a groan.

"Oh. Thank God." She exhaled shakily. "I thought I was dead."

I smirked, trailing a finger down her arm. "You were out. Said my name a few times, too. Very flattering."

"I did not," she muttered, cheeks pink.

"You did." I leaned closer. "Remember what I told you before you knocked out?"

She rolled her eyes, then mumbled, "You say a lot of things when I'm defenseless."

"Mm. I told you, 'You're mine tonight, Camille.'"

Her head snapped up, brow furrowing. "Exactly! That's why I panicked!" she said, voice rising. "You kept saying tonight—we both did! Of course I thought it was morning when I woke up and everything was already dim!"

I stared at her.

She stared back, like that logic was airtight.

"So you're saying... because we declared temporary ownership over each other using nighttime terms, you forgot how time works?"