She turns when she hears me, and for a moment we just look at each other.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
Silence. The coffee maker gurgles. A bird sings outside.
"So," Iris says, "that happened."
I laugh despite myself—the sheer awkwardness of it, the morning-after tension that feels like something out of a romantic comedy. "Yeah. That happened."
"I'm not..." She sets down her mug, turns to face me fully. "I'm not sure what happens here. After you kiss someone at a party and then spend the whole night lying awake thinking about it."
"You were thinking about it?"
"Obviously." A blush creeps up her cheeks. "Were you not?"
"I was. All night." I move closer, drawn to her like a magnet. "I was thinking about how you taste. And the sound you made when I—"
"Cat." Her voice is strangled. "It's eight in the morning."
"And?"
"And you haven't even had your coffee yet, and you're—" She gestures at me vaguely. "Standing there. Looking like that. Saying things."
"Things?"
"Things that make it very hard to think."
I stop an arm's length away, giving her space. "Do you need to think? We can think. I can make breakfast and we can think very seriously about whatever we need to think about."
"I don't know." She runs a hand through her hair. "I feel like we should talk about what this is. What we're doing. What it means."
"Okay. Let's talk."
"See, but when you say it like that—" She shakes her head. "I don't know how to do this, Cat. I've never—this isn't something I have a plan for. I can't just wing it."
"Why not?"
"Because—" She stops, frustration flickering across her face. "Because I could mess it up. Because I don't know the rules. Because you're important to me and I don't want to hurt you by doing something wrong."
Something warm blooms in my chest at the words you're important to me. I close the distance between us and take her hands, holding them gently in mine.
"Here's what I know," I say. "I like you. A lot. More than I've liked anyone in a very long time. And last night was—" I search for the right word. "Extraordinary. You are extraordinary."
"Cat—"
"Let me finish. I'm not asking you to have it all figured out. I'm not expecting you to know exactly what you want or what this means or where it's going. I'm just asking you to be honest with me—about how you're feeling, what you need, when things are too fast or too slow or too anything." I squeeze her hands. "We figure it out together. That's all."
Her eyes are bright, almost teary. "What if I'm terrible at this?"
"Then we learn. Together."
"You keep saying that word. Together."
"It's a good word."
She laughs, shaky but real. "Yeah. It is."
