I slept in late, which is strange for me.

I can hear the clinking sound of somebody moving around in my kitchen. I realize it’s Raylan, and I remember how I woke up screaming in the night.

My face burns, knowing what a fool I made of myself. Screaming like a little kid with a nightmare.

He had to come in and hold me, like I was five years old.

I hate that he saw me like that. Weak and vulnerable.

On the other hand, the memory of the dream is still fresh in my mind. I was swimming, but not in the clean, bright rooftop pool. It was night, and I was swimming in a huge, dark lake. My hands looked ghostly white in the black water.

Something grabbed me from below and dragged me down. I could see the reflection of the moon up on the surface, growing tiny like a pinprick of light as I sank down, down. The water was freezing cold and pitch dark. The thing that had hold of me was monstrously large. It grabbed me with a dozen tentacles that squeezed all around my body—around my arms, legs, chest, and throat. It kept pulling me down no matter how hard I fought. And when I finally had to gasp for breath, cold water flooded my lungs.

I woke up tearing at the sheets that had wrapped tight around my body. I heard someone screaming and it took me way too long to realize it was me. I touched my face and felt that it actually was wet and cold. I’d been crying in my sleep.

I hope to god Raylan didn’t notice that, at least.

I’ll admit, it did feel good when he held me. I was ashamed of myself. And embarrassed that he ran in there half-naked, wearing just the boxer shorts he’d been sleeping in. But I couldn’t deny how warm his arms were, and his bare chest pressed against my face. He was like a huge blanket fresh out of the dryer. His warmth seemed to seep into my body, calming me down.

But now I have to face him. And I’m self-conscious all over again.

Not wanting to hurry that particular meeting, I take a shower first, and get dressed in a blouse, slacks, and a pair of loafers. Then there’s nothing else to do but go out to the kitchen.

Raylan is messing around at the stove. He’s got four different frypans going—one on each burner—and he’s wearing my apron over a fresh flannel shirt. His black hair looks damp and clean, like he already showered. I notice he didn’t bother to shave, though. His thick black stubble makes him look rakish. Especially when he smiles, showing those sharp teeth.

I don’t usually let men sleep over at my place. So I’m not used to somebody taking over my kitchen, using my frypans and my spatulas, spattering grease on the stovetop.

I don’t even know where the hell he got all this food. I certainly didn’t buy bacon and eggs and whatever he used to make french toast.