Juniper drifts back to sleep not long after the sun rises, and we curl back into bed. I remain awake, my mind swirling with thoughts. There's too much to think about. Too many things I'm worried about.

I fixate on the tiny glow-in-the-dark stars hanging on the ceiling that my dad put up for me when I was seven, with Juniper's head resting on my chest, my hand tracing patterns along her arm. And I worry.

I worry about the interview for The New York Times that I haven't told her about. I worry about the 'no fraternizing' rule at work. But mostly, I worry if she feels the same way I do or if this is just one-sided.

I'm yours.

Was it something she said simply because I asked her to? Was it just in the moment? Because I really want her to really fucking want me just as much as I do her. And not just for the summer either.

I'm lost in my thoughts when the vibrating from Juniper's phone disrupts the stillness. I reach over to the nightstand to silence it before it wakes her up, but as I do, I see the caller ID flashing "Beckett."

He won't fucking leave her alone.

Add it to the long list of reasons why I hate Beckett Moore. Including the fact that I'm pretty sure he never went down on her, judging by how hesitant she seemed when I asked her if I could earlier.

The list seems to keep growing longer, and there's no sign of it stopping. Frankly, I can't fathom why Juniper stayed with him for as long as she did. The guy is a complete moron and never deserved her in the first place.

I release a heavy irritated sigh and carefully disentangle her from me, trying not to disturb her. Slipping into a pair of shorts, I head downstairs and start making coffee in the French press.

Gathering the ingredients to make pancakes, I ignite the stove as I pour, flip, and stack. My mind preoccupied with everything else.

The New York Times interview seemed promising, and they said they would keep me informed. But, that doesn't secure the job for me. They could easily opt for another candidate. So, is it even worth mentioning right now? I'm not so sure. It might just add another layer of uncertainty to all of this.

I take a sip of my coffee. Pour, flip, stack.

And then there's the whole 'no fraternizing' rule. When I flew back to Seattle after New York, I stopped by the office to grab a few files before returning to the lake. I casually asked James Foster, one of the copy editors, if he knew anything about the validity of this no-dating rule. According to him, it's all very true.

Pour, flip, stack.

Apparently, Andrew Mitchell, the editor-in-chief, my boss, and the then associate publisher, had a nasty breakup that nearly tore the Seattle Sun Times apart, forcing employees to choose sides. As a result, they established a strict rule to prevent any more office romances from causing chaos.

There has to be some sort of loophole though. I just need to find it. I'll find it.

Leaning against the counter, I rest both hands on its surface, my gaze fixed outside, watching as the world wakes up. I'm so deep in thought that I don't even hear when she comes down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Hey," she says softly, and I turn my head from the window to face her.

"Hi," I greet her, a smile tugging at my lips. She's back in my shirt.

God, I fucking love seeing her in my shirt. I don't even want it back. I want her to keep wearing it every night so she remembers me when she falls asleep.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her eyes drifting to the floor. "I hope you don't mind, I borrowed a pair of your socks. I like wearing them in the morning."

"Going through my things, Jenkins?" I tease as she steps deeper into the kitchen, her socked feet silent on the floor. Slipping my arm around her waist, I pull her close, pressing my face into her neck and everything instantly settles in me. "You can take whatever you want."

"Don't tempt me," she murmurs against my chest. "I might end up taking half of your book collection."

I grin. "Coffee?" I ask as I draw back slightly to catch her light brown eyes.

"Please," she responds, and I quickly pour a cup, passing it to her.

"I also made pancakes," I mention as she brings the mug to her lips. "I wasn't sure if you liked blueberry or plain, so I made both."

She glances over at the stack on the counter, pausing mid-sip. Her brows furrowed in confusion, as if she'd never been made breakfast before. "You made me breakfast?"

"I did," I confirm.

Clearing her throat, she takes a quick sip of her coffee. "That's really nice of you," she says, looking at me and placing a hand on my shoulder. "You didn't have to do that."

I'm willing to bet that Beckett never made her a single fucking meal. Something inside me twists. Anger? Jealousy? I'm not entirely certain. But what I do know is that she deserved someone who treated her like she was their universe, not just an afterthought.

"Let me grab you a plate," I offer, quickly stacking two pancakes, slathering them with butter, and generously drizzling syrup over the top.

I set the plate on the counter, then secure my grip around her waist. As I lift her onto the counter, she releases a sound that's a blend of a squeal and a gasp, and I step closer, slipping in between her legs and offering her the plate.

"Thank you," she says, reaching for the fork on the counter to cut into the pancake. "Quite the treatment here," she says before taking a bite.

I watch as she eats. "Is it good?" I don't need to know. I know I make good pancakes.

She tilts her head, considering, and when she finally swallows, she deadpans, "Terrible." But then she cuts another pancake, dips it in syrup, and pops it in her mouth with a smile, sliding the fork between her lips to clean it off.

I watch as she chews, then swiftly take the plate from her, setting it down on the counter. "Let me try," I interject.

I reach for her neck, applying gentle pressure with my thumb against her throat, I pull her to me, pressing my lips against hers, letting my tongue sweep across. She tastes like warm maple syrup. A soft sigh escapes her as her body melts into mine.

I pull away, and she clears her throat, pressing her lips together before asking, "Good?"

I shake my head slightly. "Terrible," I mutter as I grab the plate and cut a bite with the fork, shoveling it into my mouth before setting it down on the counter again.

"Stop doing that," she whispers, shaking her head slightly, a warm smile spreading across her face.

"Stop doing what?" I ask, brushing a piece of her brown hair behind her ear and meeting her eyes.

She leans her forehead against mine, our noses brushing together. "Stop saying things that make me want to kiss you more," she murmurs, pressing a kiss on my lips. I can't help but smile against hers.

And this routine repeats almost every morning over the next month. I wake up in a bed too small for both of us, with her asleep as sunlight filters through the blinds. Rising before her, I make the coffee and set it on the nightstand for her. Wrapped in nothing but my T-shirt, she stretches before grabbing the cup, taking a sip.

We work together, whether it's at home or our Hansens coffee. I handle the articles for both of us while she writes her book. Despite her reluctance to let me look at anything she writes, she spends most days completely engrossed in typing, as if her life depends on it. She immerses herself so deeply in writing that time slips her mind, and meals become an afterthought. I end up having to bring her coffee, muffins, and snacks. Reminding her to take breaks. I've never seen her so passionate about anything before.

She tells me after work she's going back to her friend's lake house, but it never lasts any more than two days before she comes back. Sometimes, I'll cook dinner; other times, she'll take over, and I'll sneak up behind her at the sink, wrap my arms around her waist, and kiss her neck.

It's like a perfect day that keeps repeating and repeating—a dream on a loop that I never want to end. But, at some point, I know this perfect little bubble we've constructed together will eventually burst.

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