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"Why?"

"Because the last time I trusted my instincts about someone, I ended up with Trevor. And it took me a year to realize I'd made a mistake." Her fingers are playing with the collar of my shirt now, not quite looking at me. "What if I'm doing the same thing with you?"

I take my time answering, trying to find words that are honest without being too much. "I can't promise you won't get hurt. I can't promise I'm not going to fuck this up somehow. But I can promise that if I do, it won't be because I'm trying to control you or manipulate you or make you doubt yourself."

"How do I know that?"

"You don't. You're just going to have to decide whether you believe me."

She's quiet, processing that. Then she says, "I want to believe you."

"That's a start."

"Is it enough?"

"Yeah. It's enough."

She looks at me for a long moment, like she's searching for something in my face.

Whatever she finds must satisfy her because she leans in and kisses me. It's soft and sweet, nothing like last night's urgency. Just her mouth on mine, slow and certain.

When she pulls back, she's smiling. "I should probably get up. Make coffee. Be a functional human."

"Or you could stay here…"

"Tempting. But I really do need coffee."

She climbs out of bed, and I watch her pad barefoot toward the bathroom. She's in leggings and a tank top, her hair a mess, no makeup, and she moves through the small cottage like she's comfortable in her own skin.

It's different from last night when I could see her second-guessing herself.

I get up and make the bed, then head to the kitchen. The coffee maker is small and old, and it takes me a minute to figure out how to work it.

By the time Lyla comes out of the bathroom with her hair pulled back and her face washed, I've got it going.

"You made coffee," she says.

"Seemed fair since you fed me last night."

"I gave you tea that was too sweet..."

"Still counts!"

She's smiling as she gets mugs down from the cabinet. We stand there in the small kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew, and it feels weirdly domestic. Like we've done this a hundred times before instead of once.

"I have to go to the station at some point," I say. "But I'm not in a rush."

"What time is 'not in a rush'?"

"Nine, maybe. Depends on whether anything came up overnight."

"And nothing came up?"

"Ethan would've called."

The coffee finishes, and she pours us both cups.

"What's your day look like?" I ask.