Someone knocked on the door, and I jumped.

“It’s me,” a deep voice said from the hall.

I rushed to the door and jerked it open.

Taylor was standing there with a wide grin on his face and a full backpack hanging from his shoulders. “I just figured I’d crash here. Is that all right?”

I threw my arms around him. Time reversed to the last moment we had been together, almost directly below where we now stood. Standing on my tiptoes and squeezing him a bit too tightly made everything a thousand times better. It was as if the last wretched week hadn’t happened.

When we parted, he scanned me from head to toe. “I didn’t anticipate you wearing that.”

I looked down at the thin white tank top I was wearing, barely long enough to cover my navy panties. I tugged it down. “I was just getting ready to go to bed.”

“Awesome. I’m bushed,” he said, tossing his backpack to the floor. He closed the door behind him.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this for me. You don’t know what this means.”

“You’ve said that a lot this week, but you’ve yet to tell me why,” he said, slipping his arms out from his jacket. He took off his ball cap and tossed it onto the counter.

“I’m working it out in my head. I’m not really sure how I’m going to pull it off.”

“I’m not going to ask, but I have no idea how to prepare.”

“You don’t have to.”

He cocked his head. “Whatever it is, Falyn, I want to be with you.”

“You will be.”

“If you say so,” he said, sounding frustrated.

I couldn’t blame him for being unhappy. He was doing me a huge favor while being left in the dark about what exactly it was. I hadn’t said it out loud for more than five years, and being this close, I was afraid that if I did, I would jinx it.

We both looked around, a sudden awkwardness invading the room.

“Do you … want some sheets for the couch?” I asked.

“I have a choice? Then you take the couch.”

I smacked him on the arm and then shifted nervously. “It’s got that, um”—I pointed, my finger making small circles—“that broken bar thing. It’s a bitch to sleep on.”

He raised an eyebrow, three lines deepening across his forehead. “I remember. So, I guess this means we’re having a slumber party.” He began walking toward my bedroom.

“Taylor?”

“Seriously, Ivy League, just tell me where to go. I’m fucking tired, and we’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

I held out my hands and then let them fall back to my thighs. “Okay then. The bed. But that’s not an invitation for anything else.”