Time passed. The sun shifted. My essay took shape under my fingers, building momentum with each paragraph. Sabrina's warmth remained constant against my side, a comfortable pressure that I'd stopped noticing consciously.
I was deep in thought, typing out the conclusion, when I felt it.
A subtle weight against my shoulder.
I glanced over.
Sabrina's head had lulled to the side. Her book had slipped from her fingers, resting on her stomach. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even.
She'd fallen asleep.
On me.
Her wine-red hair brushed against my neck, soft as silk. Her head nestled into the curve of my shoulder like it belonged there. I could feel the gentle puff of her breath, warm and rhythmic against my collar.
I froze.
Moving would wake her. The beanbag was too soft, too responsive to weight distribution. Any shift in my position would send ripples through the leather and disturb her.
