Fortunately, the rugby gods take pity on me.
He settles again.
I slide out of bed inch by inch.
This is when the noises start.
First, the mattress squeaks.
Next, the floor creaks.
Then, somehow, my elbow knocks into the nightstand, and something rolls across the floor like it’s auditioning for a percussion solo.
I wince.
Still no movement from Noah.
Miracle.
Now comes the next challenge.
Finding my clothes.
I drop to my hands and knees and begin crawling across the floor like a burglar in a very poorly planned heist.
There’s my dress.
Victory.
But my underwear?
Gone.
Vanished.
Apparently sacrificed to the romance gods sometime last night.
“Great,” I whisper.
I find my shoes near the door and my phone wedged under the edge of the bed.
Perfect.
Because I am absolutely calling a rideshare.
The quicker I get out of here, the quicker my brain can pretend this was just a fun, reckless decision and not the beginning of a full emotional meltdown.
And right on cue, my brain finally catches up with my heart.
Panic slams into me.
What am I doing?
What I should be doing is easy.
I should be leaving.
Immediately.
