“We’re a mess,” I murmur.
“Speak for yourself,” she says, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and sniffing. “I am a very put-together independent business owner who just happens to be naked in a storm with her ex-almost-boyfriend who is now apparently her actual boyfriend.”
“Is that what I am?” I ask, a stupid grin tugging at my mouth.
She pretends to think about it. “Hmm,” she says. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I’ll have new business cards printed.”
She snorts. “Crew Wright: Professional Boyfriend. Rates negotiable.”
“For you?” I murmur. “I work for bookstore credit.”
Her eyes go soft again. “Dangerous offer,” she whispers. “I could keep you forever that way.”
“That’s kind of the point,” I say.
She burrows back against my chest, sighing. “Is it weird that I’m relieved we had The Talk after we had sex?” she asks, voice muffled. “Is that backward?”
“I don’t think there’s a right order,” I say. “We’ve been doing everything out of order since we were sixteen.”
“True,” she says. “Might as well keep the theme going.”
We lie there for a while, just breathing, the rhythm of her rising and falling chest syncing with my own.
Eventually, she mumbles, “If we fall asleep, you’re not allowed to freak out in the morning and pretend this didn’t happen.”
“I won’t,” I say immediately.
“I’m serious,” she says, poking my ribs lightly. “I’ve seen the movies. I’ve read the books. Guy panics, girl pretends she doesn’t care, twelve chapters of avoidable angst.”
“Are you really using romance tropes as a cautionary tale?” I ask, amused.
“Yes,” she says. “This is my area of expertise.”
“Okay, expert,” I say. “What’s the correct trope for tomorrow morning?”
She considers. “Soft morning after with shared toothbrush jokes, coffee, and maybe some slightly awkward but honest conversation,” she decides. “Followed by a gentle re-entry into the world where we resist the urge to overshare with the entire town for at least forty-eight hours.”
“So no posting a selfie with the caption ‘Stormed his castle, 10/10 would recommend’?” I ask.
“Oh my God,” she groans, laughing. “Absolutely not. If we’re turning this into a public-relations rollout, it has to be a slow-burn reveal. Think strategically timed holding-hands moment at the farmers’ market.”
“I don’t know if I can wait that long to hold your hand in public,” I say.
She squeezes my fingers. “You don’t have to wait in private,” she whispers.
I tighten my grip. “Good. Because I’m not letting go anytime soon.”
Another gust of wind rattles the window. The lights flicker, then stabilize.
Bailey yawns, her body relaxing more fully against mine. “If the power goes out,” she mumbles, already half asleep, “you have to tell me a story.”
“What kind of story?” I ask softly.
“One where we get a happy ending,” she says, words slurring.
I press my lips to her hair. “Deal. Though I think we just wrote the first chapter.”
