Chapter 8: The Blanket Thief
The cold woke him. A deep, bone-ache chill that had him groaning softly into the darkness. The room was silent, the desert beyond the glass a void. He was on his back, and the duvet was gone. Not just shifted. Gone.
He lifted his head.
A cocoon. That was the only word for it. On her side of the bed, Dasha had somehow wrapped herself, mummy-tight, in every single inch of the heavy duvet. The pillow wall was a distant memory, a few stragglers slumped against the headboard. She was just a shape in the dark, breathing slow and deep, utterly at peace while he froze.
“Unbelievable,” he whispered to the ceiling.
He considered his options. He could try to tug it back. That meant a tug-of-war with a sleeping person, which felt both childish and vaguely predatory. He could get up and get the spare blanket from the closet, but the floor was ice under his bare feet and the effort seemed Herculean. Or he could do the only logical thing.
With a quiet, resigned sigh, he dismantled the remains of the pillow fort, pushing them aside. He shifted across the expanse of sheet, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stopped when he was close enough to feel the radiant heat coming off her bundled form. The scent of her shampoo—something clean like rosemary—cut through the citrus of the room.
Gently, he found a corner of the duvet and pulled. It gave an inch. He pulled again, sliding a section free, and drew it over his own shoulder. The warmth was immediate and profound. He settled onto his side, facing her back, now sharing the covers but with a careful six inches of space between them.
He must have fallen back asleep, because the next thing he knew, the world was blue. Pre-dawn light was seeping into the room, turning everything soft and monochrome. And he was warm. Deliriously, completely warm.
Dasha was no longer a cocoon. Sometime in the night, she had turned. Her back was now pressed against his chest, her body curved into the shape of his. His arm was around her waist, his hand splayed low on her stomach, holding her there. Her head was tucked under his chin, her braid a soft rope against his throat. He was holding her the way he’d wanted to on the jet, the way he’d imagined in a hundred silent moments. And she was asleep, pliant and soft, one of her hands resting over his.
He didn’t move. He barely breathed. This was a stolen thing, a secret the night had given him. He let his eyes close, memorizing the weight of her against him, the steady rise and fall of her breath under his palm, the incredible rightness of it. His world, for this suspended moment, wasn’t just real. It was perfect.
Then, he felt it. A subtle tension in her muscles. A hitch in her breathing that wasn’t sleep-deep. She was awake. And she was realizing.
She didn’t jerk away. That was the surprise. She went very, very still. He could feel her awareness click into place, piece by piece: his body, his arm, the intimacy of their position.
“The duvet thief returns to the scene of the crime,” he murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep. He didn’t let go.
He felt her swallow. “I told you I don’t share well.”
“You weren’t sharing. You were annexing.” He let his thumb move, a slow, faint stroke against the soft cotton covering her stomach. “I was an ice block. You were a furnace. Basic thermodynamics took over.”
“Thermodynamics,” she repeated, her voice quiet and morning-rough.
“And the pillow wall was a strategic failure. It never stood a chance.”
She was silent again, but she didn’t pull away. Her hand was still on top of his. He wondered if she could feel his pulse hammering in his wrist.
“What time is it?” she finally asked.
“Early. Your left nightstand is still on your left, for the record. Geography remains intact.”
A small, shaky breath that was almost a laugh. Then, with a resolve that seemed to cost her, she slowly untangled herself. She slid out from under his arm and sat up on the edge of the bed, her back to him. The cold air rushed in to fill the space where she’d been.
“You have plans for your desert visit,” she said, and it was her professional voice, but it was frayed, like fabric worn thin.
He sat up too, running a hand through his hair. He watched the line of her shoulders, the dip of her spine under her pajamas. “Dasha.”
“I should get ready. I’ll order coffee.” She stood, still not looking at him, and walked to the bathroom with a speed that was just short of a retreat. The door clicked shut softly behind her.
He fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling where the blue was brightening to gold. The scent of her lingered on his skin.
The suite was a study in careful avoidance. She emerged from the bathroom dressed for the day in tailored trousers and a simple blouse, her hair damp and re-braided. The coffee had arrived, and she placed a cup silently on the nightstand on his side—his side—before taking her own to the far window.
“If you need anything before we leave, let me know.”
“I need to know we’re okay,” he said, the words simple and direct.
She looked at him, her cup held tightly in both hands. “We’re professional.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the only answer I have right now, Matt.” She took a sip of coffee, her gaze steady over the rim. “Last night… was a logistical solution that evolved. That’s all.”
He knew a defensive lie when he heard one. He’d built a career on delivering them with more conviction. He just nodded, letting her have the exit. “Right. Logistics.”
An hour later, he was dressed and ready, the Hollywood facade perfectly in place. She was by the door, checking her bag, a living portrait of efficiency. As he passed her to leave, he stopped.
“For the record,” he said, his voice low. “When I said you make my world feel real? That wasn’t logistics. That was a confession.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He walked out into the hall, toward the elevator, toward the day of exploration and relaxation that awaited him. He left her standing in the quiet suite, the door slowly swinging shut, her professional mask finally, completely, shattered.