I WOKE UP alone in bed around ten-thirty, to a screenshot from Robin. In it was a good morning from Stan to her, along with a photo attachment of a kitten tangled in sheets. My phone buzzed with another text as I struggled to get my bearings.

This is how women were wooed in the olden days, it said. Also, Coco sent me some photos Takoda sent her of you. You were unaware in most of them and I think he's completely crazy about you. I'm jealous. The end

It was only then that I remembered everything that happened between Takoda and me after we returned to our hotel room early this morning. The kissing, especially.

I dropped my phone without responding to Robin and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes as I held back a scream. Then I listened for signs of life in the room. The spot next to me was cold, an indication that he'd been gone a while, and other than the hum of the air conditioner, the room was still.

I turned over and pushed my face into the pillow.

I was in his Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, but I couldn't really remember putting it on. The memory came in short flashes, so I knew I was half-asleep when he nudged me into it. I'd said goodnight to him afterwards, as I settled on my stomach, and he'd placed a kiss on my cheek. I remembered feeling happy then, but now I wasn't so sure. Was he going to go back to being weird? Was I going to be weird? I'd literally agreed to us having casual sex last night, and even though we didn't, I wasn't quite sure where that left us. Was this even healthy?

Without giving it much thought, I took my phone, closing out of my and Robin's thread and going to Google. Then I typed, is it healthy to have sex with your ex, into the search bar and waited for the results. The answer was obvious, so I wasn't quite sure what exactly I was looking for. Google advised against it, and I even read some answers on forums explaining why. Familiarity made you do it, most of them said. Leftover tension, others added. Then there was an answer at the end of the thread that had me pausing.

If you feel like you might still have feelings for your ex, having sex with them, especially if you've been having sex before, might feel easier than talking it out. I say this from experience. It's totally normal to still harbor some feelings for an ex, but, depending on the situation that led to the breakup, it's not always advisable to get back together with them. With time, those feelings lessen. Some people argue that the sex helps them get over everything and is sometimes what you need, but it's a terrible idea, imo.

The answer had five comments, but I only read the first one.

Seven years ago, I broke up with my ex. Two years later, we bumped into each other and started talking again. We almost hooked up once before realizing that we still had feelings for each other and deciding to give our relationship another shot. We're happily married now and welcomed our beautiful baby girl two months ago. Getting back together with him is the best decision I've made in my life. So it all depends, honestly. There's no rulebook for this.

I dropped my phone again and pushed my hands through my hair, silently cursing out the internet. I laid there for a while before encouraging myself to get up. Then I went through my suitcase for a pair of shorts I could put on, thanking the heavens that I was an unsure packer. I never knew what to take along with me when leaving home, so I usually just went with whatever I felt I'd need. My mom called it overpacking, but I called it logical.

Takoda's MacBook was half-open on the coffee table, next to a travel mug, a hardback notebook, and pill bottles. There was even a pillow on the couch, and it was all so semi-hazardous and so him that it made me smile for a moment. Then I remembered the forum responses and walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I didn't know when our flight back to L.A. was, but I remembered he said first thing Thursday—which was a little questionable now—and put my things together anyway.

I was perched on the edge of the bed some minutes later, phone in hand as I simultaneously stared at the view outside the floor-to-ceiling window and breathed in the smell of his T-shirt when the door opened. Naturally, my body seized up—I had no idea how things would be between us now—but I listened to the sound of his movements as if under a spell. There was a pause after he put some things down on the coffee table, then I became aware of the unmistakable rhythm of him approaching the bedroom. He looked like he'd only meant to peek in, judging by how surprised he was to see me sitting on the bed.

"Hey," he breathed.

"Hey," I responded.

He stood there, his hand on the doorframe, and I registered for the umpteenth time that I really liked his hands, the way he touched stuff, the way he held them.

Too aware that I was in his shirt, I asked, "Where did you go?"

He took a moment, just looking at me. "I, uh, went to get my clothes dry-cleaned and sent back to the fashion house. I wasn't sure if you'd feel up to grabbing brunch with me, so I got some food."

I nodded. "When's our flight back?"

He didn't say anything, and I wondered what it was about me that was making him stare at me so much this morning. Was it the fact that I was wearing his shirt? I read somewhere that guys liked how big their clothes looked on girls. Finally, he said, "We're not going back today."

"What?"

"I figured you'd be tired after the event yesterday, so I booked us another one. Ten tomorrow."

Immediately, I reached for my phone. "Does my mom know? She'll be expecting me back today."

"Don't worry, I told her. She responded with, Takoda why and a crying emoji, but I told her."

I didn't realize when I laughed, but the sound brightened his face. "She's gonna harvest your skin the next time she sees you."

"Worth it."

The both of us paused at the same time, and it was me who stared this time, remembering what Robin had said in her text about him being crazy about me. "You think so?" I felt the need to ask.

"Yeah, I do." I didn't respond, and after a while, he said, "Good morning."

Good morning wasn't romantic to any degree, but there was something about the way he said it that had my stomach fluttering, and I understood why Robin was fawning over Stan saying it to her.

"Good morning."

He gestured behind him. "You should come eat something. I got your favorites."

"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute. Thanks."

He lingered for a moment, before his hand was gone from the doorframe. As soon as he was, I fell back into bed and placed my hands over my face, entertaining the butterflies as I once again remembered how he'd touched me last night. I didn't realize I was smiling until I took my phone to reply to Robin and caught my face in the screen.

I wore his shirt for the rest of the morning, while we ate, and while I watched the first episode of Glen in Heels—the series that rose Xandra to fame—on Netflix. I'd heard about it—first from Robin because obviously—and seen clips on social media but had never really gotten around to seeing what it was truly about. It was based on an international bestselling novel of the same name and followed the eponymous character, Glenda, an aspiring model who, after getting accepted into a six-month-long, reality-type modeling internship program, found out that one of her housemates for the show is the guy she drunkenly cheated on her boyfriend with while out celebrating her acceptance two weeks before.

I heard that Netflix crashed when the first season of the show aired, and that it ended on a cliffhanger that wasn't included in the book, so it wasn't too surprising when it got renewed for another season.

According to critic reviews, it was equal amounts hilarious and wholesome, not the usual cliché storyline, and was more about the mistakes we make with the excuse of chasing our dreams than the swoony, leap-out-of-the-screen chemistry between the biracial main characters. It examined sexism and racism in the modeling industry, and I made a mental note to watch the rest of it before the third season aired. It was already in post-production.

"Xandra's actually a great actress," I commented at one point towards the end of the episode, to distract myself from the fact that the characters were basically two steps away from making out—it was too triggering—and I wondered how the partners of actors felt when they watched scenes like this. I thought I'd die if I saw Takoda kiss someone like this for the whole world to see. Not that he was my partner or anything.

He looked away from his phone at me, and I remained in my lazy spot on the adjacent couch, tilting the screen of the laptop so it rested better against my lap. I took out one AirPod bud so I could hear him better if he spoke.

"You're watching her show?"

"No, I'm watching videos of people giving birth in their cars."

He took one of the throw pillows next to him and flung it at my face, and I laughed as it hit me. "It wouldn't kill you to answer a question like a normal person, you know."

I threw the pillow back. It missed him by a few inches. "Normal is subjective."

"Damn, that's deep. Who taught you that word?"

"You're so gonna get it, Calebs."

It felt so nice to have this playful air between us again after so long. I'd overprojected and thought things would be awkward after the time we had last night, but this was a pleasant surprise. Neither of us had forgotten about it—it was clear in the way we looked at each other, in the stolen moments—but I assumed that was how it was supposed to be. Maybe sometimes we just had to accept the way things were at a particular moment in time instead of dwelling on their technicalities.

"Can't wait."

His phone chimed, stealing his attention, and I paused the movie before saying, "You need to be placed on a month-long phone ban. You'll get radiation poisoning and die early or something."

"My jobs will take a plunge if I go ten minutes without checking my phone."

"You're just overreacting. Besides, even if they do, there are probably uncountable job offers waiting for you. You're a Calebson. A young one at that."

"Ha-ha. Nepotism screams my name."

Putting his laptop aside, I sat up and pushed myself off the couch. Then I walked over to where he sat and snatched the phone from his hand as he was in the middle of typing out something.

"Cleo, come on."

The worry lines that appeared on his forehead had no effect on me.

I took a glance at the screen—he was scheduling a Zoom meeting with his publicity team—figured the email could be a few minutes late, then pushed the power button and slipped the device into the pocket of my shorts. He frowned at me as I dropped myself into the spot next to him and placed an elbow on the top of the couch, but I ignored him. "How many hours did you sleep?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"About three."

"On an average night, how many hours do you sleep?"

He laughed briefly, shifting forward so he could lean his head back. "This feels like therapy."

"I'm not trying to psychoanalyze you."

"Before I was diagnosed, my therapist asked me that exact question."

"And what did you tell her?"

He was quiet a moment, mulling over my question, and I got it. I never really asked him specific questions about his mental state. Regardless of how close we were, we had boundaries when it came to this. It was usually the periodic how are you doing? How was therapy? Is there something you want to tell me? Have you taken your pills? Just an overarching subject. Nothing invasive. I didn't want to come off as nosy, I was just really curious about his progress.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes focused beyond the wall. "I generally don't sleep more than four hours when I'm stressed out."

"Even with the pills?"

"I don't really take them. They mess me up."

"Does she know about that?"

He laughed again. "Can I have my phone, Cleo?"

"Don't you think it's kinda risky?" I asked anyway, a shot of panic running through me. "I mean, with the antidepressants in mind? Maybe they were prescribed to complement each other."

He let out a breath. "I know," he said. "If I tell her, she'll have the prescription changed again, and I don't think my body can handle another set of chemicals."

"I understand that, but—"

He brought a hand around me, and I was a little confused about what he was doing until I felt his fingers against the pocket of my shorts. Surprised, I scooted back.

"You will not do that."

He moved forward just as much as I moved back, ignoring me. "You don't have to hold my phone hostage before we have this conversation."

"Takoda, this is serious. You have to tell her."

"I know."

He tried to reach for it again, but I tilted my body so he didn't have access.

"Cleobelle."

"Calebson."

"I'll kneel and beg if you'll give it to me."

I laughed. "No. Don't do that."

"Please?"

"No."

He melted into the couch again, with a huff this time. "It's not fair."

"I know, baby." I realized what I said the moment it was out of my mouth, and he did, too. He turned to me with all these emotions skipping behind his eyes, and the room was forced into silence as we were stared at each other. After a moment, I said, "Unhear that."

He laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Why? It's cute."

"Stop it," I told him, my cheeks going flushed, but it only made him laugh harder. I felt a weird brush of pride at the thought that I made him laugh like that.

"You swore at midnight that you're never gonna call me that. You were all like ew, gross. You either answer to me calling you by your last name, or we end this right here."

I laughed, both at the memory and his imitation. "First off, I do not sound like that. Second, a sarcastic baby doesn't count."

He made a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat, and it undid me a little. "I think it counts."

"It doesn't."

He regarded me with a warm smile for a beat, then to my surprise, took my hand and gave it a little tug. "Come here," he said, and I didn't waste time closing the gap between us. I only meant to erase the unnecessary space, but he had other plans in mind, pulling me forward until I was forced to straddle him.

One of his hands went to the side of my neck, and he massaged the spot for a few seconds, sending sparks of pleasure down my spine. I looked into his eyes from this angle, loved every second of it, of being here with him, of feeling this lightness again, of having him hold me like this again. When he kissed me, short and gentle, like I was porcelain and he was scared to break me, I wondered how deeply emotions ran. If there was a limit to how hard you could fall for a person.

"Let me take you somewhere," he whispered against my lips after pulling back an inch, his forehead touching mine.

I held onto him, feeling lightheaded from a kiss that lasted all of two seconds. It still marveled me how he was able to turn me to complete mush with the smallest gestures. "Where?" I whispered back, leaning in to graze his lips with mine.

"Where's the fun in telling you?" I heard the smile in his voice and couldn't help but smile back.

"I didn't scratch you last night, did I?"

"Only a little."

"I'm sorry."

He chuckled, reaching down to run a hand along my thigh, and I felt something push me closer to him. Before I kissed him again, he mumbled, "I liked it."

Maybe I was addicted to him, but in that moment I could care less. There wasn't any tension in my shoulders. Just me and him, his hands against my skin, my stomach pleasurably upset, like I was falling in love for the first time all over again. Ever since we moved past the stage of bumping noses and getting the angle wrong, our bodies were always in sync when we kissed. We were actors in our own movie, finally getting our lines right.

I nipped at his bottom lip—an experiment—and he let me, so I bit it again. His smile blossomed against mine, and I knew how this would end if we kept this up, so I kissed him one more time, then pulled away. Before I could open my eyes, he'd slipped his hand into my pocket and taken out his phone.

"You're such an imp," I told him, leaning in again.

"There can't be two angels in one room."

I wanted to express how cringy I thought the statement was but found myself laughing instead. He laughed too, before the sound died from both our lips. Still, we remained there, eyes closed, foreheads touching, reminded that we were still very much in love.

good things happen in vegas 😇

i'm very much aware that we've maybe entered the honeymoon phase, but there's this voice at the back of my head that can't stop reminding me that this is still act 2? i'll leave you with that.

qotc: would you watch/read GiH if it were a real thing? my brain suggested something cool but slightly funny in relation to it, and it made me do a little "ha!" in my head.