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“Morning,” she says.

“Morning.”

“Sleep well?”

I keep my face neutral. “Fine, thanks. You?”

“Mmmm.” She leans against the doorframe and looks around my room with theatrical nonchalance. Her eyes land on the nightstand, where the empty truffle wrapper is sitting, which I forgot to move. Her eyebrows go up a fraction.

“I’m not saying anything,” she sings.

“Good.”

“I’m just—I’m standing here. In a doorway. Having a completely normal morning. After getting quite an interrupted sleep because somebody was having very loud sexual intercourse⁠—”

I put my hand over her mouth, and she licks it.

“EW!” I recoil.

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve been doing worse than that. Trust me, I can hear.”

“What happened to a little roommate discretion?”

She snorts. “Yeah, that only applies if you’re not going at it all night.”

I cover my face with my hands. “Oh god. I’m so sorry, it was kind of inconsiderate.” I look up grinning. “You have a pass to stay up late several times with mysterious men.”

She shrugs. “It’s all good. I’m happy for you. I just need to know all the details. Who is the mystery man? And what happened to your semester celibacy policy?”

“He is nobody, just some guy I met at a gig.” Not a total lie? I just don’t want Sydney to freak out when she finds out it’s Cal, not until I’ve figured out what’s actually going on between us. “And the policy has been abolished. Officially.”

“Really?” Sydney narrows her eyes. “Just some guy? Fine. Keep your secrets.” She pushes off the doorframe and turns to go downstairs. Then stops, and turns back, trying so hard to keep the expression off her face and failing completely. “I’m happy for you,” she says. “That’s all. I’m just very happy for you.”

“Sydney.”

But I’m grinning too.

“Going now.” She disappears down the hall.

I sit on the edge of my bed and look at the wrapper.

I pick up my phone. No. I can’t.

I don’t text him again. I put it back down and open the renal flashcards. Thirteen weeks. A plan. A life I am building on purpose, brick by brick. And Callum Fox, standing in the middle of it, taking up the whole hallway.

I look at the flashcards.

I think about his hands.

I close the laptop, pick up my phone, open a new text, and type.

Bea

you still owe me another chocolate

Then I close that too and open the flashcards on my phone instead. I study. In the next hour, I check for his reply four times. For me, that’s restraint.

Cal