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“Tonight, you started to call me your girlfriend but didn’t.”
I can’t stop the chuckle. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Not worried. Curious.”
I stare her down until she starts to shift away, but I drag her back and tilt her chin up to me.
“I like you curious,” I murmur against her neck.
“Go to sleep,” she retorts, but she’s smiling.
“And leave you awake to spin in that beautiful head of yours? Never.”
One thing that hasn’t changed is that it takes her awhile to wind down after a gig.
I brush my fingers through her hair.
“Not spinning. Thinking about your birthday next weekend,” she says. “I have plans.”
“You can’t because I have plans.”
“That’s not how birthdays work.” But her protest is softer, her breaths longer and slower.
I stroke down her arm and thread my fingers through hers, rubbing my thumb across each of her bare knuckles and memorizing the feel.
“It is now. I’ve been working on something too,” I murmur.
But she’s already asleep.
I smile.
