He didn't move.

The sound of water filled the small apartment, a steady rush from behind the bathroom door. Riley lay on his back, the sheets tangled around his hips, his arm still extended where it had rested across Jessica's waist before she'd slipped out of bed. The pillow beside him held the shape of her head, the fabric cool now but still carrying the scent of her shampoo—something floral, something that made him think of jasmine rice and early mornings.

He stared at the ceiling. The light through the blinds painted thin stripes across the plaster, and he traced them with his eyes, not really seeing them. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that didn't match the water's cadence. Faster. Shallower.

The warmth of her body was still pressed into his memory. The way she'd rolled into him in the dark, trusting, heavy with sleep, her arm draping across his ribs and her breath warm against his shoulder. He'd lain there for a long time after she'd fallen asleep, feeling the slow rhythm of her breathing, the occasional twitch of her fingers against his skin, the weight of her head tucked under his chin. He hadn't been able to sleep for what felt like hours. Not because she made him uncomfortable—but because she made him feel something he didn't have words for yet.

Safe. That was part of it. Trusted. That was the rest.

The water shifted. He heard it in the change of pitch, the way the stream hit tile instead of skin. She was rinsing. Almost done.

He swallowed. His throat was dry.

He should probably get up. Make coffee. Put on a shirt. Do something that wasn't lying here, half-dressed, waiting for the bathroom door to open with a girl in a towel who had told him she loved him three days ago. But his body didn't move. His legs were heavy under the sheets, his arm still reaching toward the empty space beside him, and the thought of standing felt like crossing an ocean.

So he stayed. He listened.

The water shut off.

The silence that followed was louder than the shower had been. It filled the apartment like water filling a cup, rising to the edges of every corner. Riley held his breath without meaning to. He heard the shower curtain slide back on its rings—a metal scrape, plastic against plastic. Then water dripping. A soft patter against the tub. Then footsteps. Bare feet on tile. Then the rustle of a towel being pulled from the rack.

He imagined her there. Wringing out her hair. Pressing the towel to her face. The way she'd looked last night, red-eyed and raw, standing in his doorway with a duffel bag full of scripts and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She'd looked so small in that doorway. So much smaller than 6'5" had any right to look.

He didn't know what to do with that image. It made his chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with want, though want was tangled up in it somewhere. Want was always tangled up with Jessica. It had been since junior year, when she'd first sat next to him in psych class and asked to borrow a pen, her voice too loud in the quiet room, her smile too bright for a Tuesday morning. He'd felt something then. He'd felt it every day since.

But it wasn't just want now. It was the duffel bag. The eviction. The way she'd said I'm sorry before falling asleep, as if needing a place to land was something to apologize for. As if he'd ever turn her away.

The bathroom door didn't open.

He heard a soft thump—maybe a bottle being set down. Then silence again. The silence stretched, and he found himself counting the seconds in his head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He got to twelve before he heard the click of the door handle.

His heart stumbled.

The door swung open.

Steam billowed out, carrying the smell of soap and heat and her. It curled into the bedroom like a living thing, dispersing in the cooler air, and through it, Jessica emerged.

She stood in the doorway, one hand holding the towel at her chest, the other pressed flat against the doorframe. Her hair was wet, dark against her shoulders, water still beading at the ends and dripping onto the towel where it wrapped just above her breasts. Her skin was flushed from the heat, pink across her cheeks and chest, and her eyes—those dark, expressive eyes that always seemed to be performing even when she wasn't—were wide.

She looked at him. He looked at her.

The silence between them felt like a held breath. The steam settled around her, softening the edges of her silhouette, and he watched her throat move as she swallowed.

His hands were still. His chest was not.

"I fell asleep on you, huh."

Her voice came out softer than he expected. Not theatrical. Not performing. Just her, raw and warm and slightly embarrassed, the words hanging in the air between them like the last of the steam.

Riley laughed.

It came out before he could stop it—a short, surprised sound that broke the tension in his chest and left something lighter in its place. He shook his head, still smiling, and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"You were out," he said. "I think you were asleep before I finished turning off the lamp."

She ducked her head, and he saw the tips of her ears go red. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize, I liked it."

She blushed while looking up at him. Water dripped from her hair onto the towel, dark patches spreading across the fabric where it clung to her shoulders. "I just... I didn't plan to crash your bed. I was just going to sleep on the couch and then you said to take the bed and then you were there and you were warm and—"

"Jess."

She stopped. Her mouth closed.

"You can sleep in my bed," he said. "It's fine."

She stared at him. Her hand tightened on the doorframe. "I drooled on your pillow."

Riley laughed again. It was easier this time, looser. "I don't care."

"I used your shampoo without asking."

"I don't care."

"I took the good towel."

"I really don't care."

She bit her lip. It was a nervous gesture, one he'd seen a hundred times—at auditions, before exams, when she was about to say something she wasn't sure she should say. He knew it the way he knew the shape of her handwriting, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she laughed when a joke surprised her.

"You're too nice," she said. "You know that?"

"I'm not nice. I'm just not mad about towels."

"You're nice." She said it like an accusation, but her voice was soft. "You let me sleep in your bed. You let Inde wear your Henley. You let Jasmine steamroll you into ramen dates. You let us all just..." She gestured vaguely with her free hand. "Take."

Riley looked down at the sheets. The fabric was twisted where she'd tangled it in her sleep, and he could still see the impression of her body in the mattress beside him. "It doesn't feel like taking," he said. "It feels like you're all choosing to be here. That's not the same thing."

She didn't answer. When he looked up, she was watching him with an expression he couldn't read—her head tilted, her lips slightly parted, water still dripping from the ends of her hair.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing. You're looking at me like I grew a second head."

She smiled. It was small, almost shy, and it changed her face completely—softened the sharp edges of her cheekbones, made her look younger than the roles she auditioned for. "I'm just not used to people being... this." She gestured at him again, the same vague wave. "You."

Riley felt heat creep up the back of his neck. He looked away, focusing on the window, the light, anything but the girl in the towel standing in his bathroom doorway. "I'm not that special."

"Riley."

He didn't look up.

"Riley, look at me."

He did. Slowly. His eyes met hers, and he saw that she wasn't performing. There was no act here, no theatrical distance. Just Jessica, barefoot and wet-haired and wrapped in a towel, looking at him like he was something worth seeing.

"You let me sleep in your bed," she said. "You held me all night. You didn't try anything. You didn't make it weird. And now you're sitting there, half-naked, telling me you don't care that I used your shampoo."

He shrugged. "Because I don't."

"That's the point."

He didn't understand what she was saying, but the way she was looking at him made his chest ache. There was something fragile in her eyes, something she was holding very carefully, and he didn't want to be the one who broke it.

"You should probably get dressed," he said. "Before you catch a cold."

She laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised out of her, and it made her shoulders relax and the tension in her face ease. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm practical."

"You're ridiculous and practical. That's a rare combination."

He smiled. "I try."

She stepped out of the doorway, finally moving, and the steam followed her like a ghost. The towel stayed where it was, tight at her chest, but she let her hand drop from the frame and walked toward the duffel bag on the floor near the foot of the bed. Her footsteps were soft against the hardwood, and he watched her bend to unzip the bag, the towel pulling taut across her back.

He looked away. His face was warm.

"Do you have any coffee?" she asked, her voice muffled as she rummaged through the bag. "I need coffee before I can be a person."

"In the kitchen. The pot's already set up—I just need to hit brew."

"Will you?" She straightened, holding a pair of jeans and a loose sweater. "Make coffee? While I change?"

He nodded, already pushing the sheets aside. "Yeah. Of course."

He stood, and he was suddenly aware of his own state—barefoot, bare-chested, wearing only the sweatpants he'd slept in. He grabbed the t-shirt draped over the foot of the bed and pulled it over his head in one motion. It was old, soft from a hundred washes, and it smelled like him. Like laundry detergent and something darker, something that was just his skin.

Jessica was watching him. She didn't try to hide it. Her eyes traced the line of his shoulders as he pulled the shirt down, then dropped to his hands, then back up to his face.

He felt seen. Not looked at—seen. And it made his throat tight.

"Coffee," he said. "Right."

He walked past her, close enough to catch the scent of his shampoo in her hair, the heat still radiating off her skin. She smelled like his bathroom. Like his soap. Like something that was slowly becoming familiar.

The kitchen was cool when he reached it, the morning light slanting through the window above the sink. He filled the reservoir, scooped grounds into the filter, pressed brew. The machine hissed and gurgled, and the smell of coffee began to fill the air.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and stared at the drip. His mind was full of static. The weight of her against him in the dark. The way she'd said his name. The way the towel had pulled tight across her back when she bent over.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and breathed.

Footsteps behind him. He dropped his hands and turned.

Jessica stood in the kitchen doorway, dressed now—jeans, the loose sweater, her hair still damp and curling at the ends. She was holding a brush, and her expression was soft, uncertain, as if she wasn't sure she was allowed to be here.

"I smell coffee," she said.

"It's almost done."

She nodded and walked to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting. She didn't look at him. She looked at her hands, the brush she was turning over and over between her fingers.

Riley watched her for a moment, then turned back to the coffee maker. The machine sputtered, finishing its cycle, and he grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. He filled them both, black, no sugar, and carried them to the table.

He set one in front of her.

She looked up. "You remembered."

"You always order it black at the diner."

Her smile was small, private, meant for the mug. She wrapped her hands around it and brought it to her lips, blowing across the surface before taking a sip. "Thanks."

He sat across from her with his own mug, the heat seeping through the ceramic into his palms. The kitchen felt smaller with her in it. Not cramped—just different, charged, the air between them humming with everything they hadn't said yet.

"What time is your callback?" he asked.

"Nine." She glanced at her phone on the table. "I have an hour."

"That's enough time."

"Yeah." She took another sip. "Are you going to be here? When I get back?"

The question hung in the air. He knew what she was really asking—not about his schedule, but about whether she could still stay. Whether this was temporary, or whether he meant it when he said she could sleep on his couch.

"I have class at eleven," he said. "But I'll be back after. You can stay."

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the mug. "Okay."

"Jessica."

She looked up.

"You can stay as long as you need."

Her lip trembled. Just slightly, barely visible—but he saw it. She caught it, pressing her lips together, and looked down at the coffee again. When she spoke, her voice was rough.

"You're going to make me cry before my callback."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." She laughed, wet and quiet. "It's good coffee."

They lean into each other and kiss.