My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure what century I was in. The sun filtered through the curtains like warm honey, and the scent of toast and butter hung in the air. Blake was leaning over me. His face was annoyingly gorgeous in the morning light. His thumb was brushing slow circles at the base of my skull, his other hand balancing a tray with, pancakes, toast, and a small bowl of strawberries. His shirt was rumpled. His hair was a mess, his were eyes soft, and he looked like a hallucination I’d once begged to forget.

“Morning,” he whispered. “You drool a little. It’s cute.”

I jerked upright, nearly whacking my forehead against his. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Blake grinned—the kind of grin that made me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “Your aunt let me in. Said if I made noise before eight, she’d call the cops again.”

I groaned and pressed my face into the pillow. “Traitor.”

“When I told her I was bringing you breakfast before we hit the road, she said, and I quote, ‘Good. But if you hurt her again, I’ll break your knees with a cinnamon broom.’”

I sat up, the blanket tumbling down my chest, my tank top suddenly feeling very tank-toppy. “She said that?”

“Word for word.” He shrugged, balancing the tray on my lap. “Minus the expletives I’m pretty sure she mumbled in French.”

I stared down at the buttered toast. “You made this?”

“I did.” He beamed with the pride. “Do I get a gold star?”

“No.” I took a bite of the toast, chewing slowly as I watched him. “Do you even know where the toaster is in this house?”

“I know a lot of things,” he replied, mock-offended, reaching over to steal a strawberry.

“You know how to break and enter.”

“I know how to grovel.”

I looked up at him. “Oh? And you’re gonna do that now?”

He dropped to his knees beside the bed.

I blinked, caught off guard by his sudden move. “Bla⁠—”

“No, no.” Blake held up a hand dramatically. “Please, my lady, I am but a man, unworthy of your grace. Please take pity on a soul ruined by longing⁠—”

“Shut up,” I laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot,” he said, looking up at me from the floor. “If you’ll have me.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to swallow whatever weird feeling was climbing up my throat. I wasn’t used to tenderness at 8 a.m.

“Stop being sweet,” I grumbled. “It’s disorienting.”

Blake talked nonsense while I ate—telling me about Diane, his therapist’s favorite houseplant, the barista at his local café who allegedly had a vendetta against correct spelling, and Jamal, who threatened to unfriend him if he didn’t ‘grow a pair and apologize with actual tears.’”