It was only when I heard Zara exit the bathroom that I remembered she didn't have anything clean to change into for bed.

I considered asking my mom for something but she only slept in nightgowns, and Zara wouldn't fit them. Harley had already gone to bed and I didn't want to wake her up while searching for something for Zara because I knew she would pay me back by 'accidentally' waking me up every day for the next week. So I settled on grabbing something from my wardrobe. A pair of sweatpants with drawstrings so that Zara could adjust them, and one of my smaller t-shirts.

I knocked on the spare room door—Zara's room now—and it took her a few seconds to open the door, and when she did, I immediately froze. She was still wet from the shower, drops of water trickling from her hair, and she was dressed in nothing but the towel I had given her to use.

I immediately turned around. "Sorry."

"Umm, I'm not naked."

"But you're not dressed either," I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to erase the image.

"This towel is big enough that it could work as an outfit on its own," Zara said. "But fine, give me a sec," she finished before closing the door.

I didn't know why I had reacted the way I had, Harley walked around in a towel all the time, after all, and yet seeing Zara in a towel had made me heat up. I assumed it was because it was unexpected.

After a couple more seconds, she opened the door again, "happy?"

Hesitantly, I turned around to see that she had the black hoodie I had given her over the towel wrapped around her.

She held out her hand, "I assume those are for me?"

I looked down at the pile of clothes in my hands and cleared my throat, "Right."

"Thank you," she said as I handed her the clothes and then closed the door again.

I didn't know why I lingered before returning to my room, where I took a seat at my desk and opened my laptop to see if I had any new emails. I was returning to work on Monday but because of how long I had been gone, the amount of work left piled up for me was overwhelming.

I had only managed to respond to five emails out of the hundreds that were there before I spotted sudden movement right beside me from the corner of my eye. I was startled as I turned, an unexpected scream escaping my lips, only to see it was Zara looking over my shoulder.

She glanced at me with a grin, "shh, Elliot, people are sleeping."

She then turned and planted herself on my bed, lying flat against it as she looked up at the roof.

"How long have you and Jess been together?" She suddenly asked me, as if she hadn't just scared the living daylights out of me.

We had this conversation before, but to her, we hadn't. So I told her again, "since high school."

"Since high school?!" she repeated, shocked.

"Since the last year of high school," I clarified.

"That's a long time," she commented. "I'm guessing you've already done everything."

I couldn't help my laugh. This was just a repetition of the last time I had the conversation with her when she was—as she called it—'over-tipsy.' I was glad to see that hadn't changed since the accident, that she was the same person just without her memories. And I was also glad that I hadn't been drinking water this time when she said that.

I explained to her, just like I had before, that we were waiting, and her responses were almost the same, not until she confessed, "I'm not sure if I'm chaste. I hope I am though."

"You are," I assured her.

"And how would you know?" She challenged. "For all I know, during my teenage years, I used to sneak out in the middle of the night and do funny things in the dead of night."

I laughed again, harder this time. "That's quite the statement."

"You never know," she said.

"I do know though because you told me yourself that you're chaste."

"I did?" She asked. "That's funny. I don't remember telling you that."

That drew another laugh out of me. The last time she made me laugh like this was when she was drunk. I guess she was funny when she was sober too, but then again, every interaction with Zara had resulted in laughter. I had to admit that she was fun to be around. She was the kind of person that everyone would get along with, once she warmed up to them, that is.

"Are you seriously making fun of yourself?"

Zara grinned softly, "if you can't laugh at yourself, or tease yourself, then you're probably no fun and everyone will be afraid to make jokes around you because every little thing offends you. But then again," she added, "one needs to know the difference between teasing and bullying. There's a fine line between the two. For example," she sat up and faced me. "If I said you scream more like a girl than I do, that would be teasing."

"I what?"

"It's an example, Elliot, get with the program," Zara said, clearly holding in a laugh. "Anyway, as I said, that would be teasing. But if I were to come up to you and suddenly call you ugly then that would be—"

"A blatant lie?" I offered, and she howled, unable to hold in the laugh. I couldn't help my grin when she clutched her stomach, trying to catch her breath.

"I... I can't believe you just said that," she breathed, shaking her head. "But, well, you get the point. And it's also important to know your audience," she continued on the earlier topic, a smile still on her lips. "I can tease you because you're my cousin, but I can't tease someone like, um, Jess because, well, I don't know her, but you can because you're engaged and all."

I couldn't though. Jess wasn't the teasable type. She was too literal sometimes, and even when I—and anyone else—said things in a playful, sweet manner she got upset, so I didn't tease her anymore.

Zara seemed to remember me telling her that Jess didn't like being teased because she said, "oh, never mind."

"You know, I don't remember asking for a master class on the differences between teasing and bullying," I told her.

She grinned, "yeah, well, you got one." Hopping off the bed, she held out her hand to me, palm up, "that'll be one glow-in-the-dark Balenciaga cap."