She was asleep. She didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a noise she makes.

Another tiny moan and she turned, her leg slipping out of the covers, moonlit and perfect and close enough to reach. A whimper, followed by a long, shuddering exhale.

This time I groaned, rolling to face the opposite wall and tugging my pillow over my ears. Those were definitely sex noises. Shelby was making sex noises in her sleep while wearing my shirt. I will never sleep ever again.

The moment the sunrise cracks through the top of the ruffled buffalo-plaid curtains, I throw back my quilt, more than ready to end the torture. I’m greeted by my own morning wood (or all-night-long wood), but if the snores coming from Shelby’s bed are any indication, she’s still plenty asleep. I don’t bother covering myself as I trudge to the shower. I don’t even have it in me to be embarrassed. The cold spray will fix me right up, scaring away the boner to end all boners, and hopefully waking me up long enough to make it down the stairs and into the dining room to find some coffee I can inject directly into my veins.

In fact, I almost hope she does see me in this state. A man has his limits, and they include when your beautiful ex sleeps three feet away from you while wearing your old T-shirt as if she hasn’t just ruined you for all other women.

I groan, tilting my head against the freezing cold shower tiles. When I am old and gray and barely able to shuffle my way from my La-Z-Boy to my microwave to make my Cream of Wheat laced with MiraLAX, I will still have a hard-on.

Less than twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the front porch of the B&B in a flannel shirt and jeans with a thermos of steaming black coffee, watching the late-season frost get chased into dew by the sun. I have to admit, it’s pretty up here. It’s not the wild plains of Africa, but it feels like home.

“Danish?”

I look up, surprised to see Shelby. She’s fresh-faced and pink-cheeked, wearing a chunky knit sweater over jeans and brown boots laced to her shins. She is sufficiently more covered than the last time I saw her, but I know things now. Things I can’t ever unknow. And there’s only fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes until I see her in my T-shirt again.

She’s still holding the plate and I take a pastry without looking too closely. After a bite, I realize it’s raspberry. My favorite. Shelby sits in a rocker next to me and takes a bite of hers, balancing a coffee in between her knees.

“I couldn’t remember if raspberry or blueberry was your favorite, so I took a guess.”

“Good guess,” I say, lifting the danish. “This is perfect.”