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Bradley stumbled off the treadmill, almost falling to his knees from the fatigue. Plodding upstairs, he fell face first onto his bed and into a quick sleep.

Her hand grazed his inner thigh. The sensation rippled through him, exciting him, jolting his body awake. She pressed her lips to the underside of his jaw, gave a seductive lick, and when he kissed her back, she tasted sweet, like candy on his tongue. Just when he was about to beg for more, she listened to his thoughts and broke the kiss to straddle atop him, giving him a full view of her lush curves, those stunning hazel eyes, tangles of auburn hair cascading over her shoulders. His hands roamed her soft skin as he slid inside her with the seamless ease of a dream. Which this was, he knew, but hardly paid attention to, the images in his mind melding with the realities of his hand gripping himself and sliding up and down to her movements, a smooth seductive rhythm that had his blood pumping and—

His eyes blasted open.

What the hell?

The shock came not only from the realization that the woman in his steamy dream happened to be, inappropriately, his new neighbour—her erotic image still floating in his brain like a hazy poster on his bedroom ceiling—but that he was rock hard and touching himself. Granted, a majority of men would not be shocked by such a revelation. But for Bradley, one of the side effects of his alcoholism, one he didn’t share as openly as the others, was a straight kick in the junk to his sex drive. He honestly couldn’t recall the last time he’d bothered to masturbate. The issues had started near the end of his relationship with Melissa, which he’d distracted her from quite expertly, if he did say so himself, by becoming rather good with his tongue. He’d been distressed when the embarrassing symptom had followed him into his sobriety.

Until now, apparently.

And if it wasn’t the most buoying thought.

He settled back into sleep with an ease that belied his earlier emotional distress.

He wasn’t that same whisky-soaked apparition anymore.

He was becoming himself again.

DEVRA

Devra woke up with what felt like a hangover. A shame-over, she thought, as memories of the previous night replayed in her head. The knife. The tears. The unexpected compassion she’d received. The man’s—Bradley’s, she reminded herself—inquisitive gaze. And now that she looked back on it, had there also been a…spark between them?

But as all of that swam around in her brain, she concluded it was ridiculous to think anything had happened last night except for her making an utter fool of herself. It had been a long time since she’d had to interpret the motives of an attractive man, and she was likely mistaking kindness for something it wasn’t. Something she didn’t even want it to be. Relationships weren’t worth the tragic endings. Whether that ending came this holiday season or the next, everyone left her eventually. Noah. Her best friend. Her mother.

Papa?

The thought appeared, uninvited. His heart disease was like a villain lying in wait. She shot off a morning text to the family group chat to ensure the two most important people in her life were still safe.

Stubbed my toe again, her brother, David, wrote. Maybe the curse is playing the long game with me this year?

From Papa: All good here, sweetheart. Try not to worry so much.

Try not to worry. It was terrible advice. They were all worrying. All three of them. All the time. It was that constant state of fearful vigilance that had led her down the rabbit hole this week.

Tabs jumped onto her chest, drawing her from her self-pity.

“It’s great to have you back, my little lion,” Devra murmured softly. She tried to get in one of those affectionate cuddles she’d seen Tabs and Bradley share, but the cat only yowled her desire to be fed. Devra, well rested at last, just smiled, comforted by the familiar exchange.

She rose from bed and dumped the same old cat food into Tabs’ bowl, pleased as the animal gobbled it up as if in apology for straying yesterday. Out of habit, Devra started making herself a fully loaded coffee, but she switched to decaf at the last moment. Mug in hand, she sat down at her workstation.

“All right, Squally. Where were we?”

The VA flashed awake. “The last time we spoke, you were asking me to wish you luck. How did it go, Devra?”

Devra plunked her mug onto the desk too quickly, a couple droplets splashing over the rim. She glanced at the curtains, her vision reaching to where Bradley might be standing now. To what he might be thinking of her right now, in the sobering aftermath of a strange night.

“Squally, I have a favour to ask you.”

“It would be my pleasure.” The cloud closed its eyes and grinned like an anime character. “What can I help you with?”

“In the middle of the night, if I ask you whether or not I should do something, please give the following response.” After brief consideration, Devra said, “Don’t do it, you idiot.”

“Okay! If you ask for my advice any time after midnight and before six a.m., my response will be ‘Don’t do it, you idiot.’ Is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Your personalized response has been saved.” Squally winked—a pact between besties made official.