She blinks. Just once. Her head tilts a fraction.
“…Coffee.”
“Yes.” I latch onto the topic with the desperation of a man who has just spotted a life raft bobbing in open water. “Fresh coffee. About ten minutes ago. It's not good, but it's hot.”
A grin spreads slowly across her face. “Oh my God.” She laughs softly, pressing her good hand briefly over her mouth. “You're trying to redirect yourself.”
“I'm trying to survive.”
“That bad?”
I look at her—bare legs, oversized shirt, flushed skin from the shower—and decide honesty is probably my only remaining option.
“You walked out of that bathroom looking like every poor decision I’ve ever wanted to make.”
Lila actually stops moving for a second.
A faint rush of color spreads across her cheeks, and satisfaction sparks unexpectedly low in my chest at finally managing to fluster her back.
“Well,” she says after a moment, voice quieter now, “that was alarmingly smooth.”
“I'm operating under significant duress.”
Lila glances back over her shoulder, fully aware of what she's doing to me. “Good thing you made coffee then, Professor,” she murmurs. “Sounds like you need it.”
“I actually have something for you,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
Lila pauses halfway to the coffee maker. “Oh?” Something shifts in her expression. “Do you now?”
She thinks I'm about to drag her back into bed. It's written all over her face—and the fact that she seems entirely willing does something embarrassing to my ego.
I reach into the paper bag beside the coffee maker and produce a brightly colored package.
Mini powdered donuts.
She stares at them. At me. Back at the donuts.
“…You're kidding.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You should've seen your face.”
“You complete asshole.” But she's already laughing, eyes bright with something between betrayal and delight. “I thought you were finally losing it.”
“Oh, I'm losing it.” I hold out the donuts. “Here. You mentioned how you liked them on our first day, when we were discussing road trip snack hierarchies.” I shrug, trying to appear casual though I remember every detail of that conversation. “You said powdered donuts were 'God's apology for creating mornings.'“
“How did you know I’d like these?”
“You mentioned them. On our first day, when we were discussing road trip snack hierarchies.” I shrug, trying to appear casual, even though I remember every detail of that conversation. “You said powdered donuts were 'God's apology for creating mornings.'“
“And you remembered that?” She takes the package from me, her fingers brushing mine.
“I remember most things you say,” I admit. “Occupational hazard. Details stick.”
My brain takes an embarrassingly long time to come back online. That I'm capable of forming complete sentences at all after kissing her feels like a minor scientific miracle. Nobel Prize-worthy, really.
“You asked what this means,” I say. “Whether we're actually doing this.”
Something in her expression shifts.
