As I unlock the diner and dash upstairs to my apartment to change, I mentally run through my checklist of opening tasks, even though the routine is entirely second nature after so many years. Maybe I’m just trying to distract myself from thinking of how I woke up practically cuddling Brenden.

Morning wood is natural, sure. But there was a moment there where I had to fight the urge to press farther into his ass, rather than roll away. That was before I came to my senses, of course.

I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed with someone else. Normally, I hook up and leave immediately afterward. So maybe my body only reacted because of the novelty of it.

But it’s fine. I shut that shit down. I don’t actually want to molest Brenden in his sleep.

What isn’t as easy to shut down, though, is the memory of the way he kissed me last night. It was only supposed to be for practice, so I feel guilty for enjoying it, but I did. The moment his lips touched mine, it was like a tiny jolt of electricity, zapping me awake from some deep sleep I didn’t even know I was under. But again, it was practice. Fake.

Fake boyfriend.

Back in the diner, I flip the chairs down off the tables and wipe all the surfaces, then I get the first pot of coffee brewing. That’s when I take out my phone to call my dad. I’ve been checking in with him as often as I can. Which is mostly due to my guilt about sending him away while he recovers instead of taking care of him myself. I know that wouldn’t have been practical, but he’s my dad.

Despite our relationship not actually being all that close if you really examine it, I love the stubborn bastard. He’s the one who stuck around and raised me when my mom left.

I’m talking to him more often now that he’s out of town than I did when he was right here and I could see him every day. But his fall kind of scared me. It forced me to confront the idea of losing him one day. Possibly one day soon.

“Travis!” he answers the phone in lieu of a hello, his voice managing to sound both gruff and happy to talk to me at the same time.

“Hey, Dad.” I press the switch to grind the decaf beans, even though I won’t brew a pot until someone asks for it. First thing in the morning is not the time people want decaf.

“What the heck is that noise?” he asks.

“Coffee beans,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. It’s not like he didn’t grow up in this diner the same way I did.