Fine. Full-blown fire drill in her frontal cortex.
Panicking, deliciously sore, and currently turned on in an entirely unacceptable, post-orgasm, post-mistake, oh-no-I-slept-with-a-man-who-might-actually-be-a-human-cinnamon-roll kind of way.
Except cinnamon rolls didn't have hands like that. Or stamina like that. Or that distracted, half-sleepy smile he'd given her sometime around orgasm number four, which had shattered her bones and any pretense that this was casual.
She blinked up at the industrial ceiling, where big metal beams seemed to hold the building together on testosterone alone. Masculine. Unapologetic.
The light angling through his monster-sized windows painted everything in an irritating, soft-focus kind of peace—like morning itself was trying to seduce her into thinking this was fine.
Like she hadn't made a reckless, half-naked, wildly pleasurable mistake that now came with consequences that smelled like his shampoo.
Because her pillow? Smelled like him. Her thigh? Draped over one of his like it'd paid rent there. And his warm, stupidly sculpted arm that had no right being this comfortable was flung around her waist with the kind of easy possessiveness you only ever saw in late-night rom-coms or nightmare commitment scenarios.
So, this was definitely a morning.
As in… the morning. After.
Her heart thudded like it realized it was late to the accountability meeting.
She was tangled in Zach's bed, blinking against the invading daylight, absolutely, positively not spiraling.
Except, oh, yep, there went her brain. Lifting the lid on the Emergency Overthink Vault like it hadn't, only weeks ago, been declared off-limits.
The list rolled out, red-carpet style. Too intimate. Too fast. Too everything.
Too close to catching feelings.
She'd done the one thing she never did. She had let her guard down. Slipped. Twice. Okay, more like four and a half times if you counted the last one.
And worst of all was how good it had been.
Capital-G, write-about-it-in-her-journal good. Memoir chapter good.
"Tell no one, and yet somehow tell everyone" kind of good.
A groan escaped her before she could swallow it, and she immediately froze, eyes flicking sideways. Zach didn't stir. He simply breathed deep. His nose nuzzled near her neck like he had every intention of making this a cozy everyday thing. As if that was a thing they did now.
Which it very much was not.
Nope.
This was the point in the story where the heroine in her head had to get out before she accidentally started naming the dust bunnies and picturing what brand of dog food they'd buy together.
Time to disengage before this turned into a montage of Sunday farmers' markets and heartfelt label-making.
Even if the bed was warm.
Even if his arm tightened when she shifted.
Even if that scent seemed to whisper something dangerous like… stay.
She carefully lifted Zach's arm from her waist, pausing when he muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep and shifted onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow she'd just abandoned. Her escape window: officially open.
With the skill of a woman who had once escaped her ex-boyfriend's apartment using a series of rolled yoga mats as a noise buffer, Piper slipped from under the covers, padded barefoot across the fluffy rug, and gathered last night's scattered armor: bra from the lamp (eye roll), blouse tossed tastefully on the back of a chair, heels by the door, slacks still rumpled like they remembered things they shouldn't be allowed to remember.
She tiptoed to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a quiet, decisive click.
In the mirror, a woman who looked suspiciously like her stared back. But this person had a mess of sleep-tangled curls, remnants of yesterday's makeup whispering tales of glorious sins, and an excellent exfoliation routine.
