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I don't know. And that’s the problem.

But I don’t give him a chance to finish. I head for the stairs, taking them faster than I need to, my book clutched against my chest.

It’s not until my bedroom door closes behind me that the first tear slips free.

God, this is stupid.

He did nothing wrong. Neither did I. We fell asleep on the couch. He was dreaming. I moved the wrong way. He woke up. That’s it.

Except for a few sleepy seconds, it didn’t feel like nothing.

His arm tightening around me. His mouth against my neck. The sharp breath he took when I moved. And then the way he couldn’t get me off his lap fast enough once he was fully awake.

I swipe the tear away with the heel of my hand.

Apparently eighteen-year-old me isn’t the only version of myself capable of mistaking a moment with Hayes Bishop for a promise he never made.

Twenty-five minutes later, I’ve showered, dried my ridiculous tears, wrestled my hair into messy bun that almost passes for intentional, and pulled on black leggings with my new INTROVERT BUT WILL DISCUSS BOOKS sweatshirt. A jacket and black flats make it professional enough for casual Friday.

Hopefully.

Publishing has to come with some wardrobe leniency. Half our livelihood depends on people who work from home in pajamas.

The smell of coffee reaches me halfway down the stairs. I tighten my grip on the cool metal railing.

Bishop stands in the kitchen, still wearing last night’s dress pants and white shirt, though they're considerably more wrinkled now. His sleeves are shoved to his elbows, his hair is a mess, and he holds a mug of black coffee.

He notices me. For a second, neither of us says anything.

We fell asleep together. It’s not like we slept together.

So why does walking into his kitchen suddenly feel like the walk of shame?

I adjust my bag strap and keep moving. Bishop reaches behind him and slides a mug across the counter.

My travel mug.

“Coffee.”

“You made me coffee?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. It’s just coffee.” He nods toward the counter where a bottle of hazelnut creamer sits. “I wasn’t sure how much, and I didn’t want to mess it up.”

The tightness inside my chest gives a little. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

I add creamer, snap the lid into place, and reach for my bag again.

“Laney.”

My hand stills.

“About this morning—” He sighs and drags his free hand over the back of his neck.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” Please, let’s not. My heart can’t take much more rejection, especially before coffee.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”