Just as I’ve turned the couch into a bed.
The fireplace comes into focus, flames dancing beneath the TV hung above. The blaze surprises me almost as much as the blanket draped over my chest. Outside, the early morning light seeps weakly through the window. It’s too early for how bone-deep tired I feel.
I shift just enough to tug the blanket up toward my chin. Clover doesn’t move, and that’s fine. I’ve got no plans to either.
I don’t even remember closing my eyes last night, let alone lying down. I feel like I’m coming down from a hangover, even if I hadn’t drank.
Another groan flows through my slightly parted lips. My body feels like I’ve been wrung out and hung to dry.
“Coffee?”
My eyes snap open at the husky voice. It takes everything in me not to jolt upright and send Clover flying. I move carefully instead, giving her time to leap down before I push myself up.
I spot Keo standing in the kitchen to my left. He’s holding the pot of coffee—which smells phenomenal—and in his other, my mug. The chipped white ceramic with the crooked black letters:Right Turn.
It’s silly, really, but I’ve been using the same one since I moved in. Dad had given Alysa and me the pair as a joke for our eighteenth birthday—‘Now that you’ll be losing sleep, you’ll need it,’he’d said.
Hers says ‘Left Turn’and sits in the cupboard. I make an effort to put them beside each other when putting away the dishes.
Seeing mine in Keo’s hand now feels oddly satisfying. There are at least seven other mugs, but he knew to grab that one.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” I quickly say. “Yes, please.”
His chest expands on his intake of air. “No need to be so polite, jeez.”
He pours the coffee into the cup before placing the pot back into its machine. After adding milk and sugar, he walks around the dining room table and into the living room.
He’s wearing plaid pajama pants with a loose white T-shirt, and before I start checking him out, I take the mug he has outstretched to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, eyes on the cup. The color is perfect, just how I like it, and the aroma promises it’s been sweetened just right.
“Mhmm.”
I expect him to walk away, back into the kitchen or to his room to get ready for his morning jog. Except he doesn’t—he sits on the sofa beside me.
He stays a foot or so away so we aren’t touching, leans back, and drapes his left arm—the one furthest from me—over the back of the couch. His gaze stays fixed on the fireplace, and before he can catch me staring at him, I shift my eyes forward.
I don’t say anything, just sip the warm beverage. It settles a heat in my chest that makes me sigh.
“Remember when Alysa got her SAT results?” Honestly, I’m shocked he’s even talking to me. I slowly turn my head, eyes widening, as he continues, stoic and unreadable, “I think it was like, what, 1415?”
“1420,” I correct softly. “Do you remember how she reacted?”
The corner of his mouth quirks upward, and oh my god—how had I forgotten how handsome his smile was? “It was like the end of the world.”
A huff of a laugh escapes me. “Pretty sure she cried for a full twenty-four hours.”
He looks at me, eyes flicking to my lips. The low hum he lets out before meeting my gaze sends a tight, warming sensation right to my stomach.
“It’s sorta your dad’s fault for allowing her to do it at sixteen, even if her score was incredible.”
I nod, and take another drink of coffee. “She retook it, and gota worse score.”
“Yeah, she told me one Christmas…” He trails off with a sigh, and of course I had to say the wrong thing. I part my lips to apologize, but he keeps going before I can, “What, 1400?”
The grip around my heart loosens, and I clear my throat. “1395.”
