“Exactly. Yeah. I know what you mean.” I don’t want to say anything else. Not about crossing lines, at least. Soon, we’ll be going to my bedroom, where we’ll spend the night together—me on the floor, probably—and I don’t want her to feel any more uncomfortable than she’s already feeling. “Your things should be outside by now.”

Solange tiptoes to the hall and gives me a thumbs-up, which I suppose is my cue to drag her bag inside. Once that’s done, we creep to my bedroom, where she immediately catalogs her belongings.

“Lina’s the best,” she says. “Seriously, cousins who get you are priceless. She even included a romance novel.” She pulls out two neatly folded items of clothing. “If it’s all right with you, I’d love to take a shower.”

“Solange, you’re not a guest here. You’re my . . . friend. Do whatever you want.”

Truth is, I want her in my room. I want her to use my things. I want her not to think of herself as my guest. Using my shower is a step in that direction. Which sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. All of this over a damn shower. What the hell is wrong with me?

“I won’t be long,” she says, her clothes and toiletry bag in hand. “Five-minute showers are the norm.”

She closes the door, and I heave a deep sigh. It’s going to be a rough night.

Minutes later, Solange emerges from my bathroom. She’s wearing terry shorts and a tank top, and her hair is piled high on the top of her head. Her cheeks are dewy, and beads of moisture dot the bridge of her nose. And fuck if my heart doesn’t start beating wildly just because we’re alone in the same room together.

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. Solange is in my life as a test. That must be it. There’s no other rational explanation. Since meeting her, I’ve been questioning goals that have guided my decisions for years. Whether my job is the right fit for me. Whether I have the kind of support network that would help my eventual partner and me to raise a child. Whether it would be so bad to make the kinds of promises that would keep a woman like her in my life. This is terrifying stuff, but then I remember: A plan isn’t solid unless it can handle the occasional curveball. There’s no need to panic, and there’s no need to upend my world. One foot in front of the other, Dean. You’ve got this.

“Do you need anything?” I ask while I gather my own sleep clothes.