Someone nudged my arm—wait, what? Where am I? What time is it? I opened my eyes and shut them again right away, groaning when the first, tentative rays of sunshine falling through the narrow windows under the ceiling seared my retinas. John and I were lying flat on the couch with my head resting on his chest.

"Good morning, Sleepy Dwarf." John's low voice in my ear was dangerously sexy, even in my half-asleep state.

"Morning," I mumbled back reluctantly. "What time is it?"

"7-ish."

I groaned again. "Why did you wake me?"

A quiet chuckle escaped his throat. "I have to use the bathroom."

"Well, tough luck," I teased, but I sat up and ran a hand through my disheveled hair.

"Hey, now. I didn't wake you last night, even when I realized you'd miss the carol singers scene, did I?" His face grinned up at me.

"No, you didn't." My hand stopped in its tracks in the center of my scalp. My voice was quiet, but I felt unusually brave and held his gaze.

We stared at each other for a few excruciatingly long seconds. I might have been looking down on him, but I wasn't in control here. I hadn't felt in control in weeks, I realized. The air between us was nothing but an invisible net of sticky tension. For the hundredth time this week, I was acutely aware of my heartbeat. His eyes flickered to my lips for a split second.

The chirp of a bird outside startled him. He averted his eyes and crawled off the couch and turned to the stairs.

"Um... hey," I said and rose quickly. "I need to talk to you about last night, or this entire week, rather."

As I walked towards him, I was overwhelmed by dizziness which resulted in me falling into his arms that he opened just in time. "Sorry. I got up too fast." When my palm flew to my forehead, it was hot to the touch.

John rubbed my back once and then made sure I was standing on my own two feet again. "Okay, I'm gonna go to the bathroom now."

Once he had climbed the stairs, I sat back down on the couch and buried my face in the blanket. Why did this have to be so uncomfortable? Why did I have to try and talk about the elephant in the room, the big unknown, the bold question mark, the two letters that terrified me more than anything else at the moment: "us"? Was it not a big deal to him? Was this all in my head? Then why had he evaded my request to talk about it? He knew damn well where this conversation would have led.

Instead of going back to sleep and pretending it had never happened, I climbed the stairs to the first, then to the second floor. The door to John's room was closed, he was probably changing, so I grabbed a shower and changed into a pair of blue jeans and a black and red flannel shirt over a black camisole before descending into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. It was still early, but they were early risers and I wanted to do my part while the Jays' house guest.

Why wouldn't he answer me?

After combiningorganic eggs with a splash of milk, salt and pepper and paprika from the pantry and some fresh parsley the refrigerator also revealed, I poured the mixture into the skillet I had heated on the stove. They were sizzling and their aroma wafted into my nose.

"Smells delicious," said John right beside my ear.

I almost jumped to the ceiling and slapped him with the still clean spatula I was holding. His footsteps had either been silent as a mouse or I had been too lost in thought to hear him approach.

"John! You scared the hell out of me!" He grinned. "And for heaven's sake, put on a shirt, you're not on spring break in Panama City."

My cheeks grew hot when I noticed his bare torso with his damned toned abs and smooth skin. Screw you, John. At least he had replaced the towel with a fresh pair of jeans. I quickly turned back around to the stove and scrambled the eggs to seem busy.

"Why, is there a problem?" he laughed and stepped around me so he was involuntarily in my field of vision, even if only in the corner of my eye. My body temperature was through the roof, my heart beating so loud I was sure it would wake up Marianne and Robert in the other room. Please, no.

"I asked you to put on your shirt."

"Is that what you're blushing about? I thought you were ogling my brother's body the other day." He smirked. The sparkle in his eyes was dangerous. He knew what he was doing. had to.

"God, don't remind me." I set down the spatula and opened the cabinets one by one to search for plates and to get some distance between us.

"And anyway, Panama City, the Redneck Riviera? Why not go ahead and send me to the Jersey shore?"

Focusing hard on the plates so as not to acknowledge him, I continued opening doors one by one.

John let out an amused breath. "Let me spare you the hunt, the plates are over here," he said and brushed my arm with his as he was reaching past me to open a top cabinet in the spacious kitchen. His touch sent an electric shock through my body.

This madness would stop today.

"John." My voice was uneven as my breath hitched in my throat. I faced him, pressing the small of my back into the edge of the solid marble counter.

"What?" His smile faded.

My eyes burned, but I willed myself to look him in the eye. Why are you torturing me?

"Please stop." I was begging him. John was the definition of touch-and-go. He was unpredictable. Volatile. Unsafe. I needed—someone safe.

"I thought by taking off my shirt I could keep you from thinking about my brother's body—keep thinking about mine."

He whispered the last part, but he might as well have yelled it into a microphone.

He was thinking about it. About the terrifying two-letter word. As much as I questioned myself and questioned my perception and questioned my judgment when it came to John, at least now, at last,he was straight with me.

My throat threatened to close up, but I had to get this out. When I spoke, my voice sounded nothing like my voice, it was rough and distant.

"I mean it. I need you to stop."You're killing me.

John instinctively took a step back. He looked as if I had slapped him. I couldn't bear his gaze anymore and averted my eyes.

"I—" he began, then broke off. His hands rubbed along the length of his face, coming to rest over his eyes. "I'm sorry." Not removing his hands, he breathed in, then out. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

When he opened his eyes again to look at me, he reached out his hand. I flinched away from his touch. His electric, burning, tempting touch. The hurt in his face rammed a dagger into my belly.

***

My loyal duffel bag was packed before lunch, and I had used the time to pass the holiday in review. A quiet Saturday and Sunday had passed. John and I had hung around the house and had gone grocery shopping at the small grocery store down the road, but even Marianne had been able to tell the mood had tipped. Her worried glances were not lost on me. I was willing to bet she had interrogated her son about our spending time apart within the house, but from the looks of it, had not gotten far.

Now that, after lunch, our stomachs were filled with delicious vegetable quiche, we made our way outside and stood on the porch for another minute. Robert shook my hand firmly with a warm smile before Marianne hugged me goodbye.

"It was an absolute joy to have you with us for the holiday, Grace. I'm so glad you'll be staying with us again in February for the wedding. You're always welcome at our home." She sent me the kindest smile and I thanked her and Robert with sincerity, nearly choking up.

I stood on the front porch a little awkwardly as John hugged his mom and went through the manly half-hug back-patting routine with his dad. The cold late November air was beginning to make my nose run and the steady breeze crept through the too-thin fabric of my jeans quickly. When they'd said their goodbyes, John turned to me, took my bag from my hand without asking and placed it in the back seat of his car before closing it and shrugging off my skeptical glance.

"Drive carefully, John," Marianne called from the porch as her son was walking around the car to the driver's side. Robert was still smiling, an arm around his wife.

"I will, Mom. I know Grace would rat me out to you without thinking twice if I didn't."

I sent Marianne the smile her son's face was missing.

"Great to have you as an inside woman, Grace. Alright, be safe, kids. Call me when you get back to campus, John. I love you!"

John waved back as a reply as he got into the car. I followed suit, taking one last, long look at his childhood home and waved to his parents as John was backing out of the driveway. I couldn't wait to come back for the wedding in February.

"They're lovely people, your parents," I said, watching the road as John turned onto the highway.

"Yeah, they're pretty great." Finally, a smile slipped from his lips. "I'm happy you got along. My mom adores you." And you? "And you also made quite the impression on my dad, I can tell."

Within a second, I both sat up a little straighter and scolded myself for caring so much. I had to get it into my head that they were nothing to me. This visit would likely be the last time I saw them. There was no way in hell I was going to the wedding.

"I know—" he began and broke off, then started again after a few seconds: "I know we didn't end this week on the best note—and that's on me. But I'm glad you were here."

His right hand reached across the center console and his knuckles lightly brushed the knuckles of my hand resting on my thigh. I turned toward the passenger window. The traitorous tears that were building in my eyes were not for him to see. Still, I couldn't move my hand. The slow motions of his knuckles shot tingles all the way up to where my spine met my skull even after he pulled back after a few seconds.

The only perceivable sounds besides John'ssteady and my too-deep breathing were the muffled sound of the car engine andthe occasional car passing us on the highway. We had left too late and would begetting back to campus in the dark. I turned my head to watch New York floatingby through the passenger window. The warm autumn afternoon light, leaflessmaples, pine trees, car headlights, gray and green and yellow, all mixingtogether at 60 mph, all mixing together until the individual components wereindecipherable, just like the jumble of feelings I had for John.