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He’s looking at me like he can see all my fears and insecurities, and he’s ready to hold them. “No more secrets. No lies. I promise. Can we just get back to where we were this morning? This could be so good, Norah. I know it.”

A particularly harsh whisper cuts through from the other side of our moms’ door, a bucket of ice water on the moment. I want to say yes. I want to fling myself into his arms and kiss his dumb face until our lips are raw. But today was a nightmare. It can’t be like this if we want to put our moms first. I fold my hand back into my lap.

“I think we should stick to our original plan.”

His brow furrows. “As in?”

“This is a distraction. We need to stay focused on getting them engaged.”

Henry looks like he’s about to challenge this idea, but before he can start, I add, “Look at all the drama from today. It was a mess, and now they’ve been fighting for hours. We have to temper whatever is happening between us until the proposal. Just friends until Operation Latke is complete.”

Henry opens his mouth, then abruptly shuts it. With a tight-lipped smile, he nods. “Right. That makes sense.”

I’m halfway back to my room when he asks, “Can friends watch a movie together?”

That’s how we did friendship for a million years before. We’d put on a rom-com and I’d think about all the ways I could touch him if we were just a little closer.

I return to the sofa, this time to the cushion next to him, as he flips on the TV, and I let myself sink into the nostalgia of being friends with Henry Cole.

* * *

I wake with a start, shooting up from the couch and nearly elbowing Henry in the throat in the process of detaching myself from his strong hold. The cabin is still dark, save for the glow of the TV, Serendipity having long since ended. Now there’s some low hum of a nineties sitcom I wasn’t allowed to watch growing up. Henry remains extended on the too-short couch, where our bodies were cocooned moments earlier.

“We fell asleep,” I whisper, and Henry lets out a soft grunt, only half awake, and tousled in a way that makes me regret the rules I set earlier.

He stretches his legs, the slacks he never changed out of now wrinkled, and there’s a small satisfaction in finally seeing him rumpled like this. Knowing it’s because of me, even if it’s not in the way we both might want.

“I should”—Henry stands, adjusting himself—“make this into an actual bed, huh?”

I nod, and we quietly remove the cushions, unfolding the springs and setting up the blanket our moms laid out for him hours ago.

“Do you think Hannah noticed you were gone?” he asks as I linger in the living room, a pillow clutched to me.

“She could sleep through the end of the world,” I tell him. “But I should go back.”

Henry nods once, his fingers brushing mine in what could be played off as accidental when he takes the pillow from my hands. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” I say before I quietly turn the knob and sneak back into the bedroom.

Hannah stirs as the mattress sinks under my weight, but settles back in almost immediately, her eyes never even fluttering open.

I’m wide awake, wired. We probably only slept for two or three hours, but I feel fully rested. As a general rule, I don’t do sleepovers with men. Waking up together is far too intimate an act. But the last two nights with Henry, even as anxious as I was, or as suboptimal the sleeping conditions—I should be running on fumes. I should be barely functioning. Instead, I feel energized.

I lie there, restless, until around six, when I hear coffee brewing. I double-check that the bed looks sufficiently slept in before creeping back out.

I shuffle into the kitchen, where Henry grasps a mug with two hands. He looks drained, but the sleep clears off his face when he sees me. He places his own mug on the counter and grabs one for me from the cabinet. It’s on the third shelf, which I wouldn’t have been able to reach without him. I give him a smile of gratitude and pour the dark liquid into the mug.

We stand there in easy silence, taking sips of coffee, when I hear the voices again. Kristine and Mom, back at it.

“Did this start up again after I went in?” I ask softly, tilting my chin toward their door. “Have they been going all morning?”

He nods. “More or less.”

We heard them on and off during our movie, an ever-present reminder of why I couldn’t let my arm cross the barricade, why our thighs needed to maintain a healthy distance. Why the way we awoke was such a problem.

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” I ask. “You seem more familiar with their relationship than I am.”

“I don’t know. They’re both stubborn. I’ve never seen them like this,” he admits.