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I pull the blanket up to my chin.

Me: Better than me. Worse than a normal person receiving normal news.

Dalton: That sounds fair.

Me: She called my life a K-drama.

Dalton: Is she wrong?

I make a small sound and immediately cover my mouth.

Me: That is not supportive.

Dalton: It may be accurate.

Me: You love that word too much.

Dalton: Yes.

I smile despite myself.

Then I hate that I’m smiling.

Then I keep smiling anyway, because apparently pregnancy has taken my emotional thermostat and left it in a parking lot.

Me: You are very smug for someone responsible for at least half my instability.

Dalton: Half?

Me: I’m being generous.

Dalton: What caused the rest?

There are a dozen answers. The contract. The pregnancy. Alester. Petra. The possibility that my body has turned one reckless night into something permanent.

Instead, because it’s late and I’m tired and my guard is apparently lying dead under Simone’s coffee table, I type: Your voice.

The reply doesn’t come immediately.

When it does, my body reacts before my brain can stop it.

Dalton: Still?

I swallow.

Me: Unfortunately.

Dalton: What about it?

I should stop. I should say goodnight. I should not be doing this while pregnant, confused, and hiding under a blanket in my best friend’s living room.

I type anyway.

Me: It makes me remember things.

Dalton: Which things?

I stare at the question. My skin warms. The elevator comes back first. His hands under my thighs. The wall against my back. The hard press of him between my legs. The way his mouth made every thought disappear except yes.