I feel like a victorious gladiator who slayed the dragons of her ghosts. I grab my phone, shutting the alarm off, and text Trey.

Me: Won’t be there for the morning run today.

Trey: You good? Need me to bring you donuts and beer?

Ah, our college-day cure for everything that ails you, especially hangovers.

But now, the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach, especially when the only hangover I’m sporting is the one resulting from a lovely dose of Zoey.

Me: No. Zoey slept over.

He sends back a thumbs-up emoji with a question mark.

Me: Amazing. Run an extra mile for me.

That handled, I snuggle back into bed with Zoey in my arms. I can’t remember the last time I woke up this happy. Or went to sleep this exhausted.

Zoey mumbles, “What’s wrong?”

Of course she thinks that way. “Nothing,” I assure her, “just telling Trey he’s on his own this morning.”

“You’re skipping your run?” she mumbles, or I think that’s what she says at least, but it sounds like ‘yuhskapngwun’.

“You think there’s a single chance in hell that I’m leaving this bed when you’re all soft and toasty warm in my arms?”

She snuggles into me, satisfied with that answer. “I have to go to work later.”

“I know, me too. But not yet.”

I feel her smile against my chest and then her breathing evens out. I stay awake a lot longer than she did, just watching her as the room turns purple with the coming dawn and listening to her occasional soft snores.

Dropping Zoey off at home feels risky because I know what a huge leap into the abyss she made last night. I’d rather hang on, wrap my arms and legs around her like a spider monkey, and keep her in the cocoon of safety I want to surround her with. Not because she needs it, but rather because she deserves a chance to relax and not be constantly on alert for a catastrophe to strike.

But eventually, the time comes, and we both feel it. Fidgeting with her hands in front of her door, she questions, “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Absolutely. You’re stuck with me now, Miss Walker,” I threaten with a wink.

“I think you’ve got that backward, Mr. Hale.”

There’s that smile I search for and want to keep on her face.

“Maybe we’re stuck with each other,” I compromise with an eye roll for extra faux-drama. “I suppose there aren’t too many women who’d be so desperate to meet me that they’d hit me with their car, rescue me from trivia night annihilation in their pajamas, and play Sherlock Holmes when it involves digging through actual garbage.”