Book 18: She's Not Sick

Fallon

Zayn is a cuddler, which I find hilarious, given that he’s spent months growling, grumping around, and being overall ridiculously standoffish. At least, he likes me touching him. He likes spreading out on the bed like I’m not in it, his arm flat over my body, his leg pinning mine to the mattress. 

His cheek is pressed against the top of my head, and every breath he takes fluffs my hair. I don’t mind this. Not a bit. I’m used to sleeping with a dozen pillows around my body and a weighted blanket, and his weight is more than enough to send me into a stupor. 

I should be sleeping now. It’s raining softly–a naturally occurring rain. I’ve learned to tell the difference between the scent and electric current of his magic and the soft, breezy kind of storms that swirl over the islands. 

I’m not sure