“Don’t you dare apologize,” Arthur said, yanking the pillow off his head. “Not when I inflicted this on myself—is that coffee?”

Rory—who looked more enchanting than anyone had a right to be in one of Arthur’s oversize dressing gowns—held out his hands, a china cup in one and two small white pills in the other.

Arthur grabbed it all. “Angel,” he muttered, and Rory’s face went pink.

“It’s just coffee and aspirin—”

“It’s not just coffee, it’s your coffee.” Arthur took a sip with deep gratitude; it was hot and extra strong, and Rory had put enough sugar to make it go down like candy. “No one else makes it like you.”

He washed the aspirin down with more coffee as Rory closed the curtains, leaving just a small gap to let a little of the light in. It had to already be at least midmorning, judging by how the light was high in the sky instead of slanting into the east-facing windows.

“I slept late,” Arthur realized, embarrassed.

“Good,” Rory said, without an ounce of reproach. “Jade said you were up most of the night doing magic, then drove all day just so you could make it back for my birthday.”

Arthur winced. “And then I got drunk like a complete wretch.” He set the china cup down on the nightstand. “Some birthday present—”

“Getting you back was the best gift,” Rory said, with feeling. “And the Magnolia was amazing.”

His tone was warm, but Rory was still standing by himself a yard away, fidgeting almost nervously on his feet. His curls were messy from sleep, and the dressing gown was too big in a distractingly charming way.

Rory seemed to notice Arthur staring, and shrank a little. “I, um. I borrowed your robe.”

“You did, and I’m torn between wanting to get you out of it and never wanting you to take it off,” Arthur said honestly.

Rory made a small smile, biting his lip. He seemed oddly shy and uncertain. Could Arthur’s memory be faulty, and he’d done far worse than made an idiot of himself? “Did I do something last night that’s made you uncomfortable?” he asked worriedly.

“Not at all,” Rory said quickly. “You’re not that kinda drunk. You’re cute, actually.”

“Cute.” There was a word he didn’t often hear applied to himself. Arthur rubbed his aching temple. He didn’t want the answer to his next question to be yes, because he wasn’t at all ready to give up Rory’s company again, or possibly ever, but he made himself ask. “Do you, ah, have to work?”

Rory shook his head.

“Oh.” Arthur’s heart lightened. “Well, if you’re free and interested, maybe we can—”

“I quit.”

Arthur blinked.