May emerges from her shower with her hair twisted into a towel, and wearing an oversized peach T-shirt with the Riders’ skull-and-crossed-sticks logo on the front. She undoes the towel and pats her hair dry, and the entire while, I do my best to pretend I’m just super, super focused on the reels I’m scrolling through at the half-desk situated across from the window. Dumb little things capture my attention, though, like the way her biceps flex as she reaches for the back of her head, or the way her eyebrows furrow in concentration when she pulls at a stray knot in her hair. ‘You can go ahead,’ she hums, her eyes fixated on a random spot on the wall as she intently attacks her hair with the towel. She tosses it back, and it falls so long it’s almost to her waist, even in loose curls.

‘Yep. Yeah.’ I clear my throat awkwardly. Cool it, Colt. There’s no way I’m gonna be that guy that makes this more awkward than it needs to be.

My shower is a sobering, desensitizing kind of cold. It doesn’t completely rid my brain of thinking about May, with her wet hair and her bare legs, but it does enough to keep all those thoughts at bay. I usually just sleep in shorts, but I tug on a Woodchucks shirt to keep things civil. It’s a poor decision. The shocking cold wears off the second I step out into the room, and I realize it’s going to be way too warm in here to get to sleep like this.

May looks to be having no problem. Her naturally curly hair is piled into a messy knot on top of her head, and she’s swapped her contacts for a pair of tortoise-framed glasses that would look tacky on anyone but are ridiculously cute on her. She even has a book in her hands that she seems to be deeply engrossed in – Jane Austen’s Emma. It doesn’t take me long to imagine that she’s in my apartment in New Haven, in my room, and she smiles when I walk in, puts down the book, and …

Stupid. Stupid, stupid. You missed that shot a long time ago.

‘I’m going to finish the chapter,’ she murmurs without looking up. ‘I won’t keep you up, I promise.’

A warm tingling fills my chest as I shrug, pretending to be totally and utterly indifferent, skirting the bed to hit the desk, where I pop my laptop open and busy myself checking the class pages for my masters’ courses (like I have work to do, I’m already ahead by a week).

My phone vibrates, and I spare it a quick glance that turns into a much longer glance. It’s a text from Rod Wilson, complete with an attached social media post. THIS YOU??