The house isquiet when I wake up.
Sunlight stretches across the floorboards in long strips, catching on the chaos left behind from last night—my shoes are toppled by the door, Connor’s suit jacket is slung haphazardly on the bench at the foot of the bed, and there’s a faint trail of glitter going into the bathroom like breadcrumbs. My heels are on their sides, straps tangled, and one of Connor’s cufflinks gleams faintly on the rug, like it got displaced from its pair in the shuffle of us stumbling in and pulling each other apart.
Somewhere outside the room, someone’s shower is running. Otherwise, it’s just the soft creak of the wood floor as I move.
Connor is nowhere to be seen. His side of the bed is empty, sheets rumpled like he left reluctantly. My chest goes soft at the thought.
By the time I find him, he’s in the kitchen with George, both of them looking devastatingly awake and suspiciously put together.
It feels impossible that just a few hours ago, we were still on the dance floor—sweaty, laughing, the music so loud it thumped through my ribs. Someone passed around champagne straightfrom the bottle, and by the time the staff started dimming lights and hinting that it was time to go, our group had discovered a stash of junk food in the catering kitchen. We ended the night barefoot in tuxedo jackets and gowns, eating pretzels and cold fries in small lounge areas in the lobby of the resort until the night auditors gently escorted our giggling selves out.
And the whole thing with Athena… no one told me what happened, but I guess she left as quickly as she came. I don’t know if she slipped out quietly or if Connor asked her to, but either way, she’s not here this morning.
George is on the phone, gesturing with a croissant, while Connor is leaning against the counter eating a slice of leftover cake straight from a to-go box. He’s in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his pair pushed back messily, and something about how unguarded he looks makes my heart thump faster.
He glances up when I step in wearing his clothes, and his mouth tilts in this small, private smile that’s just for me.
“Morning, baby,” he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world.
My stomach swoops. “Morning.”
“¿Café?” he asks in perfect Spanish. It’s a little accented, but it’s enough to make warmth bloom in my chest anyway.
“Por favor,” I say, and he grins like a child on Christmas morning.
He pours coffee into a mug and slides it toward me across the counter like he did that first morning, his knuckles brushing mine as I take it. My pulse stutters.
We take our warm drinks to the back deck and settle into the cushioned chairs that overlook the lake. The morning is still, the water a perfect mirror for the mountains. The air smells faintly of pine, lake water, and the unmistakable scent of recently cut grass.
For a while, we don’t talk. I curl my legs under me, and Connor pulls me closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulders so I can rest my body on his. We sip slowly, watching the light climb higher over the peaks. Connor’s hand plays with the ends of my hair, and a trail of goosebumps erupts all over my skin.
A few minutes later, Camila wanders out carrying a basket of pastries and a carafe of coffee. She’s in sunglasses and a white dress, looking like she belongs on the cover of a yacht magazine despite the faint pillow crease still on her cheek. She drops into the chair next to me with a dramatic sigh, like sitting down is the hardest thing she’s done all morning, and immediately tears into a chocolate croissant. Flakes scatter across her lap, sticking to her legs, but she doesn’t seem to care.
George follows soon after, finally off the phone, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair like he’s pretending he’s not exhausted. He kisses the top of Camila’s head as he passes, swipes a pastry from the basket, and flops into the seat beside her.
“Did you just close a deal or end civilization as we know it?” Camila asks, mouth full.
“Little of both,” George says around a bite of pain au chocolat.
Conversation drifts easily from there. We talk about who still needs to pack, who’s flying out when, and whether the leftover wedding cake counts as breakfast (it does). George starts a debate about whether he should try skiing before they leave, which earns him a synchronized groan from everyone and a very pointed, “The ski resort is not open right now, sweetheart,” from Camila.
“Details,” George mutters, waving her off.
The sliding door creaks open, and Hannah appears, hair piled into a messy knot, wearing a giant sweatshirt that swallows her frame. She blinks at us in the sunlight like she’s stumbledinto a dream. Amelia trails behind her, looking refreshed and not a bit like we were out partying until the early morning hours.
“Oh thank god,” she says, padding over to the table. “Human contact. Has anyone seen Nicole or Banks? Their room is empty, and their suitcases are gone.”
“They left at dawn,” George says. “Something about a day trip. Romantic boat rides. Possibly eloping, who knows.”
“They’re not eloping,” Amelia says with a knowing smile as she slides the door shut behind her. She drops into a chair, tucking her feet under her. “But honestly? I wouldn’t be shocked if he proposes. She’s been vibrating like a champagne cork all week.”
“Huh.” Sterling pours himself coffee, settling beside Hannah, his arm draped casually along the back of her chair.
The table goes quiet for a moment, only the hiss of the espresso machine from inside breaking it.
“Fondue for dinner,” Hannah declares suddenly, like she’s just solved world peace. “We should go out with a bang.”
“Yes,” Camila says immediately, lifting her mug like a toast. “Melted cheese and overpriced wine. I support this plan.”
