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“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.

I button my shirt. “Like what?”

“Like you’re pleased with yourself.”

“I am pleased with myself,” I say. It isn’t a lie at all. I haven’t felt quite like this in a long time now.

She gives me a flat look, but her face is still pink, and the sheet has slipped low enough that I have to make myself look at the buttons instead of her breasts.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters.

“You said that earlier.”

“I meant it earlier too.”

I come closer and hand her the robe from the chair. “Your clothes are still in your room.”

“With the bed.”

“With what remains of it.”

Her mouth tightens. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t.”

“You’re about to.”

“I am thinking privately.”

She makes a face. On someone else, I would have found it childish, but she’s the cutest thing I’ve seen.

She takes the robe and pulls it on under the sheet with as much dignity as a woman can manage after being caught late for breakfast in my bed. The knot at her waist comes out uneven, and one side of her hair is flattened from my pillow.

She suddenly looks young, exposed in the daylight in a way last night didn’t allow. It makes something unnamed go through me.

“Do I look obvious?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re supposed to say no.”

“You asked me because you wanted the truth.”

“I asked you because I wanted reassurance.”

“Then no,” I say. “You look completely innocent.”

She stares at me.

I reach out and fix the crooked edge of her robe near her collarbone.

“You are terrible at this.”

“At what?”

“Morning after.”

I look at her for a second too long. “I haven’t done this in a long time, not like this.”