Tossing back the duvet and sheet, I sit up, and my head spins. I need water and something in my stomach, but first, I need to use the restroom and apologize to Dayton for pawning my pup off on him for so long. When I get to my feet, I shuffle to the door of the bedroom, slowly opening it, before I scoot across the hall to the bathroom he pointed out before he showed me his guest room. Turning on the light, I close the door and quickly use the bathroom, then wash my hands.

As I’m hanging up the white fuzzy towel I used to dry my hands next to the sink, I realize how clean the bathroom is. I know it’s an odd thing to notice, but before I moved in with Matthew, I would spend time at his place, and his bathroom was always a mess. There would be toothpaste or grime in the sink, and the toilet always had that gross mark around the bowl, like he never cleaned it.

I should have known then that he wasn’t the kind of guy to clean up after himself—something I despised finding out after we moved in together and realized that if I wanted our apartment clean, then I had to do it myself. And sure, Dayton could be the same way, and I just happened to come over after his housekeeper was here. Or maybe he just never uses this bathroom. But when we came upstairs, even though I didn’t spend much time in his place before he showed me to his guest room, I saw his home was tidy. There weren’t any random clothes tossed on the back of his couch nor unread mail out in the open. Everything seemed to have and be in its place, and it smelled good—and not like he had just sprayed something to mask the smell.

Shoving those thoughts out of my head, I open the bathroom door and step back into the hall. It’s quiet—no TV playing or even music on in the background to fill the silence. I hope he didn’t go to bed, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did since it’s late. Or late for me since I’m usually in bed by nine most nights unless I’m painting.

When I step around the corner of the hall, I find Dayton sitting on his big, dark leather couch, wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, with his bare feet up on the coffee table and a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, studying a stack of papers in his hand. Lots more papers are strewn across the top of the coffee table, where there is a can of soda resting on a coaster, and PJ is asleep at Dayton’s side, his free hand sliding through my pup’s long fur.