He shifted again, patted the bed for his phone, which he found in the folds of her comforter. When it lit up she could see more of his face, the handsome, charming curve of his smile. She clutched uselessly at the sheets tangled around her, remembered the way it’d sounded when he’d called her baby.

“Wouldn’t you know,” he said, and turned the phone screen toward her.

She smiled back.

4:14 a.m., it read.

The golden hour.

For what felt like long seconds, neither of them said a word—long enough that the phone screen went dark again, long enough that Nora began to feel a nervous anticipation set in. The truth was, no matter what had happened between her and Will since that first morning, pretty much every golden hour since, she’d thought of him: of him and her on their respective balconies, whispering to each other before they knew they’d be enemies.

She wanted, desperately, to believe that he’d thought about it, too.

But if he left now—now that he was assured the worst of her illness was over, or now that she’d removed her drooling face from his lap—she’d know she was alone in clinging to that memory.

“Even on your sick days, you’re an early riser,” he finally said, his voice quieter, almost a whisper, almost like he had on that morning outside, and she breathed what she hoped was a silent sigh of relief, sinking back onto the pillows she’d apparently never slept on. She tried to imagine the space between them as fresh, cool, early-morning summer air.

He was staying.

“Guess so,” she said, reaching up to uncoil the bun from the top of her head, feeling the crick in her neck ease and more of her embarrassment fall away as the heavy weight of it came down on her shoulder. She moved, leaning against her headboard to mimic his position. Like this, it was civilized, normal. It might as well be a couch. It was sitting and talking, nothing more.

“It’s kind of funny, to be sick,” she said, once she’d gotten comfortable.

A volley! A normal, conversational volley.

“What’s funny about it?” he returned, and she smiled in relief.

“Well, it’s my first summer back, since Nonna passed. And I only ever used to get sick when I came here in the summers. It was like, the school year would end, and a few days later I’d come. And always, within the first month, I’d get sick.”

Even with the space between them, she could feel something about his body change, become more tense. “Maybe you’re not allergic to the cats. Maybe there’s something in this building, a—”