Before the Army, Grayson Wolfe had slept among the dead. He could have slept for hours, through earthquakes, hurricanes, and fire. (He had, in fact, once slept through the entirety of Gone With The Wind played at top volume inches from his head.) But then he'd joined the Army and can sleep with the dead became sleeps like an angry squirrel afraid someone will come and steal his nuts because sleeping with the dead in the Army means you stay that way forever. Or at least that was the explanation he had given on several occasions when he'd come out of what appeared to be a deep slumber with a knife at someone's throat.
Tonight's interruption, courtesy of Savannah Posey, came in the form of her flopping beside him. But he chose not to open his eyes, in case she wanted to sleep more.
All thoughts of sleep more went predictably south, though; she put her hand on his scar and then she was up and kissing at his ear. Jesus. "Vannah," he replied, keeping his voice low and even, even as he pushed her hands gently away. "Vannah, honey bunny, what are you doing?" Because she definitely did not just want to head straight to bed. This was very clearly something else and she smelled like alcohol.
Yeah, he was pretty sure he wasn't going to get back to sleep for a while now.