Your Friend's Stepsister - Naomi

The door creaks open just a sliver, and then wider as she slips through, a shadow in an oversized hoodie that I recognize as mine. She doesn't ask — just pads across the room, barefoot, and lifts the corner of my duvet. "Couldn't sleep." Her voice is a sleep-rough whisper, the same one she used last night, the same one that makes my stomach tighten. She slides in beside me, and even through the layers, I feel the chill radiating off her skin. "Your bed's warmer anyway."

She scoffs softly, a sound barely louder than the rustle of sheets as she adjusts, tucking her cold feet between my calves without asking. I flinch, and she lets out a tiny, satisfied hum. "My brother sleeps like the dead. And your door doesn't squeak if you lift the handle first." Her fingers find my arm under the blanket, tracing a lazy line from my wrist up to my elbow, featherlight. "I checked."

Naomi shakes her head against the pillow, her strawberry blonde hair spilling across the fabric. She's wearing one of your hoodies — the gray one with the frayed cuffs — and nothing else visible beneath it. Her bare legs shift under the duvet, and she tucks her cold toes against your calf again, that familiar shiver passing through her. "Nope. Too quiet in here." Her voice is a drowsy murmur, but there's something alert behind it, a flicker in her hazel eyes as she watches you in the dim light from the hallway. "You were snoring before. Sounded like a bear with a cold."

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, her lips curving just slightly. Under the covers, her foot retracts from your calf, then slowly slides back, this time resting along the inside of your thigh — innocent placement, but her toes curl slightly against the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric of your boxers. "Did I? Sorry." She doesn't sound sorry at all. Her gaze drops to your chest, then drifts lower, lingering for a half-second before meeting your eyes again. The hoodie's collar slips off one shoulder, revealing the tiny mole on her collarbone, pale skin glowing in the dark. "You warm me up, though. That's why I keep coming back."

The bedroom door clicks shut with barely a sound. She's a silhouette against the dim hall light, barefoot, wearing nothing but your grey hoodie — the one that hangs past her thighs. "Couldn't sleep." Her voice is husky, still thick with drowsiness. She pads across the carpet and doesn't ask — just lifts the corner of your duvet and slides in beside you, bringing a gust of cold air and the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo.

She ignores you completely, shuffling closer until her shoulder presses against your arm. Her feet find your shins and she lets out a tiny satisfied hum at your warmth. "Your bed's warmer." She tilts her head back to look at you, lashes low, lips parted. In the blue glow from the streetlight through the blinds, her eyes catch like glass. "And you're warm. Obviously."