It fit her wildness. Anyone who had purple hair had to be a little bit wild. More than that, I could see it in her eyes. Especially when she laughed.

There was a glint in her blue eyes—a glint that hinted that there was more behind the shameless, sarcastic exterior.

The thing was, I thought both sides of Reagan would be wild.

She struck me as the kind of person who gave her all to everything she did, whether that was loving someone or hating them, working or playing.

I rubbed my hand across my face. I had no idea what I was doing, sitting here thinking about her like this. She’d given me absolutely no indication that she felt anything but gratitude and friendship toward me.

She was more excited about the fact I have a chihuahua than she was about me saving her life.

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true, but she hadn’t sent me eight YOU SAVED MY LIFE!!!!!!!! text messages either, so it was definitely a point that was up for debate.

Still, she’d had a rough weekend, and the last thing she needed was some idiot with a chihuahua putting the moves on her.

It was times like this that I wished I had my family around.

I’d be able to offload this to my mom while she cooked for me and hummed and listened, then she’d tell me to shut up and stop overthinking everything.

She’d remind me that my stupid ass choices lead to this moment.

Which they had.

If I hadn’t drunk that last beer last weekend, I wouldn’t have opened that stupid dating app, and I wouldn’t have ended up accidentally texting Reagan.

After the fire, she would have been one of many people I’d rescued from burning buildings.

Hearing her say her name was Reagan would have washed right over me as unimportant. It wouldn’t have had me showing up at the hospital to see if she was my Reagan.

It was all my own doing why I was sitting here on my sofa, in my underwear, watching TV while texting her.

It was why I’d done it for the last few days.

Could you have feelings for someone you barely knew? Realistically, I knew fuck all about her. Not the kind of shit you’d learn on a first date, anyway, the menial stuff that was kind of important in the long run—favorite food and movies and colors and all that shit.

Yet here I was.

Wondering how hard she’d punch me in the nose if I asked her out for real.

My phone pinged, jolting me out of that train of thought. I already knew the answer: it would be fucking hard.

REAGAN: Did your dog eat your underwear again?

ME: No. The only pair she can access are the ones I’m wearing.

REAGAN: You definitely don’t want her doing that.

ME: Definitely not. What are you doing?

REAGAN: That’s a better line than ‘what are you wearing’ I suppose.