When Mike realized she was saying they were going to go public, he’d grabbed her by the waist at the news, lifting her up and swinging her around the kitchen before nearly dropping her. Turned out apple brandy didn’t mix well with spinning in circles. They’d laughed, tossed the dishes in the sink and headed upstairs with the second bottle.

Was drunk sex different than sober sex? They were about to find out. The problem was, it was hard to remember all the details to make a fair comparison, but it was definitely a fun time. The alcohol loosened their few remaining inhibitions, and they spent hours laughing and attempting adventurous new positions. At one point, Zoey had hit her head on the headboard, but she couldn’t remember what they’d been trying to do. It was a good thing her neighbors weren’t close, because she’d screamed his name out loud when she’d come, her legs locked around his hips, sweat running between her breasts.

They weren’t robots...they needed sleep. But neither had been willing to spend too much time with their eyes closed. It was that kind of night—wild, unbridled passion.

And now the sun was coming up. Mike was sound asleep, with his head on her stomach and her fingers weaving circles through his damp hair. She was lying crossways on the bed, so she could see out the east-facing window, where the sky was turning pink and orange. The blankets were on the floor somewhere. Along with most of the pillows. She closed her eyes. Had last night been real? When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw was an empty bottle of apple brandy on her nightstand. Oh, yeah. It had been real, alright.

The alcohol had contributed to the wildness of their activity all night, but she was sober now. More than apple brandy had happened between them. Something had shifted. Something had lifted. Mike’s joy in the kitchen when she told him she was going to talk to Hazel was the start of it. The secrets had to end. All of them. Today she’d tell him she loved him. Then she’d talk to Hazel. They were going to be able to go out on actual dates to real restaurants and be with people and hold hands and kiss and...

“Your heart is picking up pace and it’s hurting my head.” Mike’s voice was a gravelly rumble against her skin. She moved her hands through his hair again.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Bit of a hangover?”

“That would be putting it mildly.” He turned his head to look up at her, his chin resting on her ribs. “Don’t you?”