Page 14 of The Snuggle Is Real

"You estimated it to the inch. That’s not the definition of an estimate."

"It still qualifies as an estimate if you give it an actual measurement. So is an approximation."

She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest that has been wound tight since the bonfire. Since she tilted her face up toward mine in front of my entire family and I kissed her like we’d done it a thousand times before.

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” she says, ruefully. “And for the record, our horror show has officially flipped to a rom com. I mean one bed? Classic.”

“Inevitable,” I agree.

"This isn’t a big deal," Emily says. "We're adults. We've shared a tent. We've shared a hotel room in Destin with four other people and a guy named Tank. We can share a bed. We just need ground rules."

"Agreed." Relief floods through me. Rules I can do. Rules are my language. I pull out my phone and open a new note.

"Do not make a spreadsheet."

"It's a note."

"It's a note today. By midnight it'll have tabs."

I ignore her. "Rule one."

"Pillow barrier." She's already gathering the decorative pillows off the armchair and the window seat. There are nine of them. I count. Plaid, velvet, one shaped like an acorn. "Down the middle. Nobody crosses it."

"Rule one. Pillow barrier." I type it. "Rule two. No snuggling."

Something flickers across her face, too quick to read. "Obviously. Rule two, no cuddling. When have we ever snuggled, by the way? And when have you ever even said the word ‘snuggle?’”

I ignore that, because she’s right on both counts.

"Rule three." I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I say it anyway, because it needs to be said, because I can still taste bourbon and cider and Emily on my mouth. "No talking about feelings, past or present, thoughts on relationships, weddings, or the last time either of us have had sex."

The room goes quiet except for the radiator ticking under the window.

"That’s a lengthy one," Emily says brightly. Too brightly. "But love that. That's basically our whole friendship anyway."

"Exactly."

"And rule four." She points at me. "Whoever wakes up accidentally touching the other person has to pretend it didn't happen. No commentary. No jokes. It's a non-event."

"Why would anyone wake up touching anyone? We have a barrier."

"Malcolm. You sleep like a starfish. I have seen it. In Destin you kicked Tank off the air mattress."

"Tank was unstable on that air mattress before I got there."

"Rule four," she repeats firmly. “It didn’t happen. Because I can’t discuss certain things due to rule number three but let’s just say that I’m used to flying solo in my bed.”

So Emily hasn’t had sex with anyone in a while. It makes my cock harden in a way that violates every rule we’ve written, but I clear my throat and ignore it.

I type quickly. Whoever wakes up touching the other pretends it didn't happen. Then I save the note and title it Operating Agreement, and when Emily leans over my shoulder and sees it, she snorts so hard she has to sit down on the pumpkin quilt.

We do shifts in the bathroom and we both stick to lounge pants and T-shirts. I notice Emily is still wearing a bra.

I can’t help it. I looked. I’m fucking human.

Lights out is at 11:04.

The pillow barrier is a masterpiece of engineering. Emily built it and I reinforced it, and the acorn sits at the headboard like a small, well-intentioned sentry.