I fall asleep at five a.m. and miraculously wake up to my seven a.m. alarm. I couldn't have fallen asleep earlier even if I'd have wanted to—I was far too focused on chipping away at the book idea I came up with last night.

It's been years since I was able to write that much in one sitting—I wrote for ten, eleven hours straight, and ended up with twelve-thousand words. Which is insane.

The only times I got up last night were either to grab another cup of coffee from our defunct Keurig, or to finish off my laundry. I shimmy into a maroon crewneck and my most flattering jeans, successfully dabbing on the same makeup as yesterday, but failing at tying my hair back.

When I was in high school, I always had really long hair, but my mom told me it shrouded my face. I'd only tried a short haircut to feel like an all-new person heading into college, and it ended up being the first thing Gina ever complimented me on, so I kept it.

Now, I think it'd feel too weird to grow it out.

The drawback of my short hair, of course, is that it's impossible for me to put up. Sometimes, I do this weird topknot bangs thing, but it falls out quickly, and it just feels disgusting. And then, if I'm doing a half-up, half-down thing, my bangs still end up in my face, which negates the whole purpose.

Normally when I write, I spend the whole time messing with it. But not last night. Last night, I managed to sit still for what felt like only an hour but ended up being nearly half a day. See again: Fucking. Insane.

I snag some apples from the fridge. It's not like they'll do much to keep me awake, but after how I felt with not eating yesterday, I'd rather have something to tide me over, even if it's not till lunch. If Roz ends up going back on what she said about providing lunches, then I'll figure something out later.

The whole commute to work is strange—I'm full of this weird, buzzing kind of energy, but it's hollow. I don't know how long it'll take for me to crash, but when I do, it'll be epic.

I brought my laptop with me in my tote bag. It's a shitty old Chromebook that I'm surprised is still hanging on in there—something I feel more than comfortable taking out of my bag and working on my budding manuscript on the subway. It's not the same kind of high as last night. The words flow slower, it doesn't feel quite as electric. But it still feels good, y'know? And I'll happily take that.

The elevator takes a while longer to arrive than it did yesterday and the day before, but I remind myself, it's not as if Roz is the only person who lives here. There are twenty-nine stories beneath her penthouse.

The doorman doesn't say a word while I wait. I keep trying not to stare at him, but it's hard not to when he's the only other person around. After a couple minutes have passed, and there's still no elevator, I clear my voice and ask, "What's your name?"

He ignores me.

I ... will try again some other time.

If I had only waited another ten seconds, I wouldn't have embarrassed myself. The elevator arrives, its stainless steel doors sliding open to reveal Willow. In yesterday's clothes. Her mouth parts in surprise when she sees me, and a slight flush creeps into her cheeks.

I'm hardly fazed. "Hi, Willow," I say, waiting for her to get out.

After a moment of hesitation, she does, and smiles so confidently that I might not have thought she seemed embarrassed just a moment before. "Hi, Marcie," she says, then struts right toward the lobby doors.

Called it.

The ride up to Roz's apartment goes uninterrupted, and then suddenly, the doors are opening, and I'm stepping out into her kitchen/living area.

She's sitting on her long, white couch, staring out at the city skyline with a cup of tea between her hands. She twirls the tea bag string with two fingers. Her legs are pressed up against her chest, her cheek settled wistfully against her shoulder. She's wearing the same silk pajamas from yesterday, but today, her hair is fully down, just a mess of fallen, raven waves.

I knock on the counter. "Roz?" I don't want to scare her like yesterday.

She's quick to glance over her shoulder, but she doesn't seem startled. Her smile is soft, her gaze tired. "Fuck," she says, "I keep forgetting you start at nine."

"Hey, if you want me to start later, I'm down."

I meant it as a joke, but the way she chuckles somehow makes it feel like she's taking me seriously. "I might take you up on that," she says. "I'm usually late to sleep and early to rise, but I think having you here so early might make me feel like I have to be more productive at a time earlier than what I prefer."

"I know that feeling." The tiredness is already beginning to catch up with me. It's a weight behind my eyes, some strange, non-gravitational force that drags down my cheeks. "Believe me."

"Had a late night?" she asks, then takes a finishing sip of her tea.

"You could say that." Roz picks herself up off the couch as I speak, shifting her waves away from her face.

She walks to the kitchen, and I have to drag my eyes away from the elegant way her shoulders slope and her collarbone juts out, away from her slightly exposed midriff, away from the way her hips sway as she moves. Rosalind is an artful mix of smooth curves and sharp edges, with a curved hourglass shape that would drive any sane person mad, and cheekbones for days. She's the perfect mix of any and everything one might find attractive.

Like, even if something wasn't your speed—say the size of her chest was somehow an issue for you, or you didn't like how her mouth softly curves up into this permanent yet wistful smile, or you didn't have a thing for sun-kissed brunettes—she contains so many multitudes of beauty that I don't see how everyone who sees her couldn't find her irresistible. If only to look at.

Which I am definitely failing right now.

I turn my gaze towards the Keurig behind me, because I have no idea what else to pay attention to. Luckily, Roz doesn't seem to notice my ogling. As she passes by me, our arms brush, and I feel the contact like a spark.

"Oops, sorry," she says, and I almost want to say that she's not sorry, that she knows exactly what she's doing. But after yesterday's little chat ... I know that that's not the case.

My mind shifts back to Willow at the elevator. Willow. That's the kind of person that Roz would ever deign to torture in such a manner.

"Want any coffee?" she asks, rinsing out her mug. "Since you apparently had a late night, too."

The tiredness currently buzzing behind my eyes jolts at the idea of coffee. I feel more hungover than I ever have after a night of drinking. How was this my sleep schedule for years? "I'll take you up on that. Thanks."

"Mm," she hums softly, reaching up into the cupboard to grab another mug. I completely fail at not watching her top rise up along her stomach and back. Her pajama bottoms slide down along her hips just a fraction of an inch, and I notice the top of her panties. My face burning, I look away once more, but the damage is done.

I've seen those panties. I've held those panties.

Like, yes, I touched Roz's violet lace thong when I did her laundry (well before the infamous un-un-unlucky panties), but knowing she's currently wearing it is ... a hell of a lot different. For sure.

"So," I say, definitely at too loud a volume, "how's the Keurig working for you today?"

Roz looks back at me, her eyes squinted, and her nose scrunched up. "Please, spare me the embarrassment."

I lean against the counter. "Hm. I'll try." Was that flirty? Be casual, be casual, be casual, holy SHIT please be casual.

She rolls her eyes, playing it off. "I'll have you know that I have completely conquered this infernal machine, thank you very much."

"What if that's what it wants you to think?"

"There's no way of truly knowing," she says. "But until the day comes when it decides to turn on me a la Terminator, I'm going to force it to brew my burnt coffee pods, and we're both going to like it."

I shrug. "Your funeral."

"'My funeral?'" Her laugh is soft and warm, like a light summer rain. "What do you think a Keurig would manage to do? It's not even top ten in my 'scariest electronic devices to gain consciousness and exact revenge on the human race' list."

"Underestimating it is your first mistake. Everybody loves an underdog story. Haven't you seen Cool Runnings?"

She turns to attempt to brew a first cup of coffee. I watch, waiting for her to realize that she needs to pour more water. But I don't want to interrupt her.

"I'm surprised you even know what Cool Runnings is. I mean, that came out before I was born."

"And yet you've obviously seen it."

"Obviously," she agrees, trying to start the machine. "But you're a baby, right?"

"I'm barely five years younger than you, Roz."

"Oh, that's just disgusting. Don't say that."

I laugh. "Would you prefer I go with, 'I'm barely five years younger than you, Ms. Lindbergh?'"

"Woooah, okay. Those are fighting words, Marcie." She glances back over her shoulder, giving me a once-over. "I don't think I'm all too worried, though."

I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. I can feel my heartbeat pounding against my fingertips. "Are you saying I couldn't handle myself in a duel-type situation? I'm actually kind of offended."

"You might have a few inches of reach on me," Roz says, as if it's a simple fact, "but I reckon I have a solid thirty pounds on you."

"I don't see it."

"Well, of course not. That's because it's pure, unadulterated muscle."

My pulse is now leaping in my neck. I think we're bantering. In a very weird way. Oh my goodness. "I'm quaking in fear."

"As you should." She sniffs. "I eat nothing but protein and possess the ability to lift two hundred pounds over my head using only my non-dominant hand."

"Wow. I am so very scared. I might fear-vomit." I know she's joking, but, like ... damn, Roz. Carry me, if you really want to. If you insist.

It feels like I've waited too long for her response, even though it's been mere seconds. Somehow, I know I've already lost her attention.

"So...." she says slowly, tucking a thick strand of hair behind her ear. "I may or may not have waited till you got here to attempt to tackle the Keurig for this precise reason."

I laugh. "It needs water, Roz."

"Oh. Mm." She stares at the Keurig, like it's an abstract piece in a gallery that she can't quite wrap her brain around. "You ... you should do it."

"Oh, yeah, sure." She takes a step back as I work my magic—aka, filling the Keurig up with water.

I hate that I'm aware of just how close she's standing to me. Close enough that, if she wanted to, she could reach out and grab my narrow hips with her hands, and pull our bodies together, maybe let me run my fingers through that hair again while she pressed increasingly sloppy kisses against my neck, and we—

No. No. No. Stop. No. Bad. NO.

Do not mentally defile this kitchen, Marcie.

She takes a step forward as I begin to brew the mug, though, and she's suddenly so close that it feels strange not to feel her hands on me—like, I just imagine that she'd want to have a non-sexual hand placed on my shoulder, just so she could lean easier. But, for reasons unknown (but completely guessable), she refrains, instead bracing herself against the counter with her other hand.

"You know, they have tutorials online for this kind of thing," I tell her.

"You know, I hired a personal assistant for this kind of thing," she retorts.

And then, we both stand there, awkwardly close. We watch the coffee sputter, then begin to pour. Neither of us utters a word. And, when it's done pouring, neither of us reach for it.

"Are you ... not gonna take your coffee?" I finally ask. It's quiet. Tentative.

"Oh. Right." As if some spell has been broken, she snaps back to life and quickly reaches around me to grab the mug. She does this weird throat-clearing cough, then blows on her coffee. I try not to focus on her softly puckered lips, and instead watch the steam flow up from her mug.

And then she immediately turns around, opening her oversized fridge. "Maaan, I'm out of creamer."

"Oh, nards," I say, because I don't know how else to respond to that.

"Nards, indeed. Hmmm." She's focused on the interior of the fridge. I'm focused on how nice her shoulders are. Underrated features, I find, shoulders. "I might make a list of groceries for you to pick up later. I'll give you my card, and you can go to the nearest Whole Foods. You'll just have to be sure and bring me back the receipt."

"Oh?" I'm still not over her giving me her card. I'd never held such a heavy card before yesterday. But I'm also kind of surprised, because Roz seems like the kind of person who would just order groceries for delivery.

"Yeah," she says, still taking stock of her fridge, "I'd get it delivered, but I'm very picky about the ripeness of my fruits and veg."

"Oh." Great. Perfect. Do I seem like the kind of person who knows how to tell if a vegetable is ripe? Because, I'm not. Unfortunately.

She glances back at me, giving me yet another cryptic once-over. "Well, okay, I'm going to go put on a really big sweatshirt, and I'm gonna try to get some editing done. Catalina sent me a fuck ton of notes last night, and if I don't get them back to her in a week, she's going to throw a hissy fit."

"Oh, really?" I put in a K-pod for myself. Maybe I should try to get her some of those reusable ones. That's what Gina and I use. "Is it, like, the whole book itself, or is it just kinda general notes to think about?"

Roz's smile is tight, if not somewhat pained. "Oh, it's the whole book. We're talking developmental edits and line edits. Plus whatever nonsense popped into her head."

"That ... is that too much work for one week?"

She shrugs. "Not for me. That's the perk of having you here, Marcie. You're gonna do all those meaningless little tasks that take me away from my desk, so I can get work done and still maintain some semblance of a social life."

"Yeah." I smile. "I get you."

Fuck, I wanna have money so bad.

"I'm glad you understand," she says, reaching out and touching my shoulder. It's only for just a moment, though, because then her hand snaps back, her posture shifts, and she gives this weirdly tight smile.

"Okayyy," she says, grabbing her coffee mug. "I'll make that list in an hour or so. In the meantime, you can, uh...."

We both glance around her spotless apartment.

"You can...." She taps her fingernails against the mug. "Um, do whatever. Enjoy your coffee?"

Before I can even tell her thank you, she's grabbed her coffee and has power-walked her way right over to her office. I glimpse floor-to-ceiling height bookshelves, packed to the absolute brim with more books than I've ever seen in person outside a library, before she shuts the door behind her with a resounding click.

Do whatever.

I mean, if you insist.