"Good news, Ms. Copelan," the doctor says, the clipboard in his grasp. "It's a level two sprain. No breaks or fractures, but you'll need to stay off it for a while." I nodded at his words, still amused by the thick accent everyone had. "We'll get you a boot and some crutches and you'll be on your way."

"How long until I can walk normally again?" I ask, already dreading the answer. "Four to six weeks."

I hang my head with a grimace. "Just keep your weight off and stay off your foot as much as possible. No dancin' or high heels for now."

Morgan snorts from his spot against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. "Yall hear that? No more dancin', Juliette. Better put that tap-dance career on hold."

I let out a bitter laugh, looking up at him with a glare. "Thanks, Morgan. Super helpful." He grins at me smugly, like a satisfied older brother- which is weird, considering we hooked up not long ago- before pushing himself off the wall. "Doc, you don't happen'a have one of those little scooters, do ya? Y'know, the one where you prop your leg up and just scoot around? I feel like she'd enjoy that."

I rub my temples, "Can we please just leave already?"

The doctor chuckles, handing me a care pamphlet all about sprains and said someone would be in shortly with my boot. He left the room and Morgan stepped closer, his smirk softening into something genuine. "Relax, Juls," he says. "'s just a boot. Ain't the end of the world."

I didn't respond, partly because I was annoyed at the situation. And partly because it was hard to stay mad when he calls me Juls.

By the time we left the emergency room, I was hobbling on crutches with the boot strapped tightly around my ankle. Morgan had helped me climb into the truck- it was awkward and difficult with the large, clunky boot and the crutches propped up in the cab. 

I watched the scenery the entire ride to Morgan's place- the quiet, tree-lined road was such a contrast to California. There weren't any towering skyscrapers or palm trees. No honking horns, lost tourists, or lurking paparazzi. It was quiet and peaceful. I adored it, despite my ears popping every time we went over a hill. 

When we finally reached Morgan's house, I realized just how far I was from the usual chaos of life. His place sat at the end of a long, gravel driveway, tucked away on a quiet piece of land. Surrounded by trees and an open sky, it was a Victorian-like farmhouse, two stories and a wrap-around porch. The white exterior blended seamlessly with the tall, autumn trees that surrounded it. It wasn't sharp or modern- nothing like the mansions or Mediterranean-style villas back home. The flower boxes under the windows and the porch swing swaying gently in the breeze were homey and beautiful. 

"Welcome to the Wallen residence," Morgan grins, helping me out of the truck. His hand hovered near my elbow, ready to catch me if I so much as wobbled. I eye the wooden steps and the cupola on the top story. "Is it haunted?"

"Only by my bad decision."

He carries my bags inside while I wobble up the stairs behind him. I feel more and more out of place with every step- the cowboy boots by the door, the guitar propped up by the wall, and the faint smell of cedar and laundry detergent lingering in the air all remind me of how... normal he is.

He sets my bags down on the quilt-covered bed in my new room. The soft creak of the wooden floorboards beneath his boots fills the silence as I take in my new space- a slanted ceiling, a window framed with white, lace curtains, a wooden dresser with a vase of dried roses. 

"Sorry it ain't much," he begins, glancing around the room like it's the first time he's ever seen it. "It's perfect, actually," I cut him off, turning from the window to look at him. His fair skin is a contrast against the sage walls, and he offers an awkward smile- one I haven't seen on him before. "Not what you're used to?" I turn to the window, admiring the endless land of rolling hills. "Not at all."

I press my fingers against the cool glass as I take in the view. Dotted with wildflowers and framed by trees that seemed to go on forever, the wind blew through the branches, blowing the orange and red leaves in the wind. There isn't a single sound besides the distant chirp of birds- something I've never heard on a casual day. It was always honking horns, sirens, or the chatter from an alive city.

I turned back to Morgan, who already had my suitcase unpacked and was working on my duffle bag. "Oh, you don't have to do that," I say, approaching the bed that was now covered in folded clothes and packing cubes. "Don't worry about it," he grins easily, "I don't get guests often. Gotta be a good host while I can."

He picks up another bag- one I recognize immediately- and I watch as he fumbles. The bag slips from his hand, landing on the floor with a muffled thud, the contents of my medical bag split and scattered across the wooden floorboards. "Oh, shit," Morgan mutters, his face pale. "I'm so sorry, Blake. Did I break somethin'? I didn't-"

I hurriedly drop to my knees, the boot in the way of my sinking down. "It's fine," I assure, picking up the loose alcohol pads. He looks two seconds away from having a panic attack, his hands cautiously hovering over the items like he's unsure if he's allowed to touch them. "What's all this?"

His question is tight with worry as he stares at the glucose meter. "it's just stuff for my diabetes," I say, gently taking the device from his hand and putting it back in the bag. "Nothing's broken, it's fine."

Morgan doesn't seem convinced, though. "Are you sure? I wasn't even thinkin', I just grabbed it-"

"it's fine," I repeat, reaching under the bed to grab the other items that split under the bed: insulin pens, tests strips, random pieces of hard candy. "See? Everything's in one piece."

He's still frowning, his browns knit together as he picks up the box of lancets and hands it to me. I glance at him, and the way he's gazing at me-genuinely upset with himself- makes my heart twist. "Morgan," I frown, trying to meet his eyes. "It's okay. I'm not mad, it was an accident."

He finally looks at me, his blue eyes locked with mine. He reaches for the bottle of glucose tablets, his hand warm and rough will calluses over mine that was already holding it. A jolt runs through me that has nothing to do with the spilled bag. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, his voice quiet, but he doesn't pull away. I don't either- his hand lingers on mine as the air between us shifts.

"It's okay," I whisper, too aware of how hard my heart is pounding in my chest. The space between us is practically humming with unspoken tension as his expression-hesitant, searching, almost- makes my head spin. 

His other hand moves before either of us can realize what he's doing. He brushes a strand of hair from my face; the action is slow and deliberate, his fingers grazing my cheeks as he tucks the hair behind my ear. His hand lingers, frozen. 

"You... had somethin'," he murmurs, distracted, almost, like he's already forgotten the words he was going to say. I swallow hard, unable to pull my gaze away. He's so close that I can smell the cologne on his shirt, and I can see the faint shadows his lashes cast on his cheekbones- and I'm sure he can hear how loudly my heart is pounding against my ribs. 

His gaze dips down to my mouth as he shifts his hand. His thumb brushes against my cheek gently, almost unintentionally. My lips part and a soft sigh escapes my mouth as I try to calm my racing mind. "Morgan." 

His name leaves my lips accidentally; I can't tell if it's a question, a plea, a warning. "Yeah?" he murmurs back, his voice barely audible.

Neither of us move- we're balanced on the edge of something neither of us know if we're ready for. But it's there- it's undeniable and electric and I want it.

The gap between us shrinks and I let my own gaze flicker down to his mouth. My hand is shaking as I raise it to his neck, letting it rest in the curve of his shoulder. Like a release, he sighs, dropping the bottle and bringing his other hand to cup my face. He's pulling me toward him when the door downstairs slams, "Morgan! You here?"

The voice booms from downstairs, shattering the moment between us like glass. We both jump back- I land on my butt, immediately lifting my hand to cover my mouth. My heart is racing and my hands are shaking as Morgan rises to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck while muttering something under his breath that sounds like a mixture of an apology and a curse. "Michael," he growls, his tone exasperated as he turns to the door. 

As soon as he's gone, I press my hands over my face in embarrassment. What was that?

I take a deep breath as I shove the bottle into the bag. Did we almost...?

No, I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Morgan's low drawl and Michael's booming laugh float up the stairs, snapping me back into reality. I rise to my feet, dusting myself off as I hurriedly begin putting my things into drawers and into the small closet. 

By the time Morgan climbs the stairs, all my bags are unpacked. The empty room is now filled with my belongings, and I feel like I've stepped into another universe. 

He stands in the doorway, his hand gripping the doorframe as he looks around the room. "Michael's gone," he announces, studying the wall oddly hard. I nod, tucking my still trembling hands between my thighs, hoping he doesn't notice.

"You need anything?" he asks after a moment, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His tone is casual, but his shoulders are stiff. "I'm fine."

He nods, his jaw clenched as either of us try to find something to say. The silence stretches awkward and heavy between us before he finally asks, "Do you, uh, wanna come downstairs? I was thinkin' of puttin' on a movie."

"A movie?" I blink in surprise. "Yeah," he says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "But, y'know, if you're tired, you ain't gotta-"

"No. A movie sounds nice," I blurt, cutting him off, even though the idea of sitting alone in a room with him feels unbearable. "A'ight then," his lips twitch into a smile, but it doesn't quite stick. "You, uh... you need some help gettin' downstairs?"

I push myself up, looking around the room for the crutches. "I actually..." I frown, not seeing them anywhere around the room. "I think I left my crutches in the truck."

He nods his head, "I'll get 'em tomorrow for you. C'mon, I'll help you."

Before I can protest, he loops his arm around my waist as we near the top of the stairs. His hand is warm and firm against my side, burning through my purple shirt. Every nerve in my body lights up as I lean against him; the contact is too much.

Or maybe it's not enough.

"You ready?" he asks, his breath brushing against my temple. "Yeah," my voice is hoarse and breathy as I answer. He chuckles, low and quiet, and it makes my stomach flip. "Alright," he breathes, guiding me slowly down the stairs. The air in the stairwell is thick; every brush of his arm against mine only makes it harder to breathe.

When we finally reach the bottom, he doesn't let go right away. His hand lingers against my waist as I steady myself, my hand pressing against his chest. I look up to thank him, but the words die in my mouth when I meet his eyes.

He clears his throat, dropping his hand and taking a step back. "Alright, Juls," he says, his voice rough. "Movie time."

I step back as well, wrapping my arms around myself uncomfortably. "Yeah," I mutter. I clear my throat, trying to steady myself. "Movie time."