The party’s still going downstairs—muffled now—but up here, it’s warm and still. I don’t say anything, but I like it—him here, in my bed, tucked against my chest.
For a long time, I just lie there, watching the snow fall outside the window, listening to Moon breathe, telling myself I should probably go back down to the guests.
But before I can make a decision, sleep pulls me under.
EPILOGUE
I wake up to the faint sound of the coffee machine grinding beans downstairs.
I turn my head and find Moon pressed against my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck.
For a second, I don’t move. Just watch him—serene, almost peaceful, one arm slung over my waist, his hair tickling my cheek.
“What are you staring at?” Moon mumbles, eyes still closed.
My face heats. “Uh…sorry. I thought you were asleep.”
He smirks and blinks at me, lashes heavy. His eyes meet mine—soft, half-lidded.
“Hi…” he whispers, voice rough with sleep.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
He gives me this small, sleepy smile that makes my heart skip. Then he shifts closer and tucks his face into the crook of my neck.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” He nods against my skin. “What time is it?”
I glance toward the window. Sun’s already pouring in.
“Probably after ten,” I say. “We slept in.”
Moon hums, thinking. “I’m starving,” he says. “Didn’t eat anything yesterday.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, smirking. “Let’s go get something.”
He sits up and goes still for a second, listening. There are faint sounds from downstairs—footsteps, a cabinet closing, someone talking.
“Your friends are still here?” he asks, looking over.
I nod. “Probably. I heard someone making coffee earlier.”
Moon stands, pulling the comforter with him—just to block my view, clearly—then reaches for his clothes on the floor.
“I’ll hop in the shower, if that’s okay,” he says, slipping on his briefs.
“I can grab you something clean to wear,” I offer.
He glances back at me with a crooked smile. “Gotta say, Woods—you’ve got some solid morning-after manners.”
***
We head downstairs about twenty minutes later, both of us showered and dressed in fresh clothes. Still, walking into the living room feels suspiciously like a walk of shame—because the only three people left in the house just happen to be the ones who knew exactly what we were up to last night.
Nick’s in the armchair with his coffee, one leg propped up, looking fresh and completely unbothered. Not even a hint of a hangover, though I know he drank a ton. As usual. And somehow, he’s always up early like nothing happened.
Samia, who never drinks much, looks way more wrecked than he does. She’s curled up on the couch under a blanket, watching the news on TV with the volume barely audible.
