She swung her legs over the side of the bed, deciding one of the benefits of sleeping with her best friend—no, her fiancé—was that she could use his shower without asking. She rummaged around until she found a fresh towel and helped herself to his shampoo and soap.

She drew the line at using his toothbrush, so she made do with her finger and his Colgate, then rummaged around in his dresser, coming up with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that were way too big but more appealing than her clothes from the night before, which were… She scanned the room, saw her bra flung into the corner. She grinned at the memory.

Audrey skipped downstairs, still smiling, and it wasn’t until she got closer to the kitchen and smelled coffee and breakfast that it hit her that she might be alone in this weird bubble of euphoria.

What if he didn’t feel the same? What if he was thinking about how to give her the talk? To tell her that sex had been a mistake, that they should just pretend it never happened.

Or worse, what if he told her it had changed things irrevocably. What if she lost him?

Determined not to let herself go to the worst-case scenario without cause, she kept her smile firmly in place as she skipped into the kitchen. Or at least, as close to skipping as one could manage wearing a man’s sweatpants, size large. Which was to say, she mostly shuffled.

Clarke glanced over from the stove and lifted his eyebrows. “Your followers are going to love this look. Does it have a name?”

“Walk of shame?” she supplied, going to the cupboard where he kept his mugs and taking down a navy-blue one that she’d picked out for him when he’d moved in.

“Shame, huh?” he asked, extending the coffeepot toward her outstretched arm and filling her mug.

His voice was casual and indifferent, but when he met her gaze, she knew he had the same reservations as she did. The same fear of rejection, the same worry that they’d made a mistake.

“Actually, scratch that,” she said, cupping the coffee mug and smiling at him through the steam. She liked her coffee with a liberal dose of the chocolate syrup she ordered from a fancy French company. Clarke obviously didn’t have any, but she could stomach it black when she had to. “No walk of shame here. Walk of satisfaction?”

His grin flashed in relief. “I was going to share the eggs regardless. No need to stroke the ego. Though if you wanted to stroke the—”

“No,” she said, holding up a finger. “No sexual puns until I’ve had at least one cup of coffee.”

“Fair enough,” he said, picking up the spatula and stirring the mushrooms sautéing in a pan.