The Morning After
Winnie
I wake up to the feeling of someone staring at me.
I keep my eyes closed for another few seconds, running a quick internal inventory. Warm. Comfortable. Slightly sore in a way that makes me want to smile into the pillow.
Right. Banks.
I open one eye.
He’s lying on his side, head propped on one hand, watching me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before. Soft. Open. A little bit like he can’t quite believe I’m still here.
“Hi,” I say, my voice coming out rough with sleep.
“Hi.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
He considers this. “A while.”
“That’s a little creepy, Banksy.”
“You’re in my bed, Win. I wanted to make sure you were real.”
I blink at him. He says it so matter-of-factly, likethat’s a completely normal thing to admit at—I glance at the clock—seven in the morning. Like he didn’t just reach into my chest with one sentence and rearrange things.
“I’m real,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” His eyes move over my face. “I see that.”
I push myself up to sitting and realize I’m wearing a t-shirt—one of his t-shirts that he must have put on me at some point while I slept—slides off one shoulder.
“Did you dress me?” I ask.
“You were cold.”
“How do you know I was cold?”
“You made a noise and pulled the blanket up. So I—” He stops. Seems to realize how this sounds. “You know what, forget it.”
I stare at him. Banks Callahan, enforcer, the man who once went three periods without acknowledging that his nose was broken, put a t-shirt on me in the middle of the night because I made a noise.
I’m going to need a moment.
“You’re doing the face,” he says.
“What face?”
“The face where you’re about to say something that makes me feel—” He pauses, visibly uncomfortable. “You know.”
“Feelings?” I offer helpfully.
“Don’t.”
I press my lips together to hold back a smile and fail completely. He watches me do it, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Hungry?” he asks.
