I tug the blanket higher on my chest and glance toward the full-length mirror across the room. Mistake.
God.I look like a sleep-deprived raccoon who got into a vintage nightgown sale.
What if he regrets it?
God, Iknewbetter. I told myself not to fall. And then he kissed me like he meant it, and asked me to come on tour like hereallysaw me in his future.Like I was already part of it.
But mornings are different. Mornings are real. And real is where things break.
I hear him moving in the kitchen. The espresso machine hisses. A cupboard clicks shut. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. The kind of rhythm that makes my throat tighten, because Iwantthis. I want mornings and mess and Max making me coffee.
I just don’t know if I get to have it.
Then he walks in. Somehow, impossibly, he’s even hotter in the daylight. Shirtless, barefoot, hair wet from a shower, the waistband of his sweatpants riding low in a way that should be illegal before coffee. He’s got two mugs in his hands.
“Hey,” he says, voice a little rough, like he’s been thinking too much.
“Hey.” I try to sound casual, but it comes out small.
He sets the mugs down and sits on the edge of the bed. Not close enough to touch. Just... there.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says carefully. “About last night.”
My stomach drops.Here it comes.
“I probably shouldn’t have asked you to come on tour.”
And just like that, the little thread of hope inside me unravels.
I nod. I knew it. Of course he’s backing out. This is the part where he reminds me I’m just a librarian and he’s a rockstar and the tour bus doesn’t have room for emotional baggage with second-day mascara.
But then he keeps going.
“I shouldn’t have asked you likethat,” he says. “Drunk. In the middle of making out. I meant it, but I said it like an idiot.”
I look up. Blink. “You meant it?”
He nods, turning toward me fully now. “Yeah. I fucking meant it, Nora. Every single word.”
“You did?” I whisper.
He nods. “Yeah. I did. And I still do. And I’ll ask you again, and again, and again if that’s what it takes to make you believe it’s real.”
I stare at him, my heart trying to convince my brain this isn’t a dream.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I am too,” he says. “But I’d rather be scared with you than play it safe without you.”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently.
“We’ve done the fake dating thing. But this?” he says, eyes meeting mine. “You? This isn’t fake anymore. This is the first thing that’s felt real in longer than I can even explain.”
I swallow, hard. “Max…”
“I want to fall asleep next to you,” he says, like the words are burning on his tongue. “Not just after sex or when it's convenient. I want tocome hometo you.”
My chest tightens, breath catching.
