I wake up next to August. I'm not sure what I expected when I fell asleep last night—maybe that he'd move to the floor at some point, put that pillow back between us, or even wake up sleep-talking himself on the other side of the bed. What I did not expect was to discover that August Williams, my best friend of nine years, is apparently a cuddler.

I woke up somewhere around two a.m. to find his heavy arm draped over me. I gently pushed it back to his side, trying not to overthink it. Then, at four a.m., I woke again, our legs tangled together, and nudged him away as he mumbled a sleepy, "Sorry." I didn't panic then, and I'm definitely not panicking now as I stir awake, nestled close to him.

His body is curled behind me, his knees tucked against the backs of mine. His bare chest is pressed against the cowboy hats on my silly goose pajamas, and his hand has slipped beneath my shirt, resting just below my belly button, right where my sleep shorts begin.

It feels like the edge of a dream, hovering somewhere between reality and bliss. And in this blissful twilight realm, a part of me wants to shift closer until our hips meet fully, just to see what might happen—just to see what he might do.

My eyes squint open as the sun casts a rosy hue across the skyline, just behind Manhattan's skyscrapers, when I feel him shift beside me. His body presses closer, and I feel against my thigh what might be the most enormous erection I've ever felt in my entire life.

Okay, so, maybe I'm freaking out just a little bit.

I squeeze my eyes shut, reminding myself that this is just biology—August having morning wood is perfectly natural and has nothing to do with me. It has nothing to do with me. However, when he shifts again, just slightly, I have to bite back a moan but it slips out as a breathy sigh.

I need to extricate myself from August, because I am unbalanced, off-kilter. And I'm not sure what I'd do if he pressed into me like that again—something I'd regret, surely.

I need to get this man off of me.

I slip out of bed as quietly and carefully as I can, gently lifting his hand from under my shirt by the wrist and moving it away as I roll out from beneath him to sit up. I turn and take a moment to look at August sprawled across my side of the bed. There's something so winsome about him like this. His wavy hair is tousled, half of it falling onto his forehead, the other half curling into the pillow. His full lips and dark, thick brows in the glow of the golden morning sun—he looks so peaceful, so perfect.

This, I think to myself. This is how I want to wake up every morning for the rest of my life. But then quickly shake off the thought because it's coming from some nonsensical part of my brain where everything is wildly unrealistic.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, turning off the Do Not Disturb mode I'd set before bed, and scroll through the flood of texts from Andrea, Morgan—my producer for my albums—and Lucy and Clara.

Andrea, in about three indirect ways, asks if I had sex last night and offers to rearrange my schedule if we need extra "time" this morning, punctuating her messages with a handful of explicit emojis.

"The only change needed is to schedule a performance review for an overly invested meddler, Andrea Cortés," I text back, followed quickly by another message, "Also, can you please figure out how to get Hansen's Coffee to the plane before we take off?"

I open the text from Morgan next. He says the voice memos I sent over a few days ago are great and that he's already working on laying down tracks—"something more synth-driven," he says—and that he can't wait for the recording session next week.

I finally switch over to the group chat with Lucy and Clara. Clara sent a picture of a poppy bouquet she's been sketching, saying she wants to get it tattooed on the back of her arm because, in her words, "Roses are the Walmart of flowers. They're unremarkable and ubiquitous."

Then she sent, "OMG," along with a screenshot of the photo from TMZ of August and me kissing. "Please tell me this means what I think it means. Gus won't tell us shit."

To which Lucy texted, "Don't ask her that!! They're supposed to be fake dating! It's probably just part of it."

Clara texted back, "I don't know, Luce. That's a lot of tongue for a fake relationship," followed by a winking emoji with its tongue out. That's the exact moment I slam into the leg of the purple velvet chair, stubbing my toe.

"Ouch," I whimper quietly as a sharp pain shoots through my foot. I hop on one foot, cradling the other in my hands, trying to stay quiet so I don't wake August. He stirs for a moment, and I freeze, balancing precariously on one foot, watching as his arm stretches out to where I had been lying as if reaching for me in his sleep.

When he doesn't wake, I limp over to my suitcase and carefully unzip it. But I must have flipped it over last night because when I open it, what should've been the bottom is now on top, causing everything inside to spill out across the floor—bras and underwear scattering everywhere.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, glancing back at August, who's still sound asleep. I hurriedly gather my undergarments, trying to be as quiet as possible.

"Hey," August rasps, his voice low and thick.

I twist around, hiding the handful of underwear behind my back. "Oh, hi. Sorry, did I wake you?"

He gives me a sleepy smirk. "You mean when you snuck out of bed, stubbed your toe on the chair, and then opened your suitcase only to have everything fall out? No, not at all."

"Right. I'm sorry," I mumble, looking down at my suitcase and then back up at him. "Go back to sleep, it's still early."

"No, it's okay. We have an early flight anyway." He sits up, and as the sheets fall away, I see what I couldn't last night. Light spills across his chest, highlighting smooth, unblemished skin, a dusting of dark hair that trails from the center of his chest down past his belly button, disappearing beneath the sheets. And all those sharp lines of muscle. "You alright?"

And that's when I realize I'm gawking at him.

"Hmm?" I hum, a blush creeping up from my chest to my cheeks. I quickly turn back around, shoveling my underwear into the suitcase. "Oh, yeah. Just need coffee."

"Really? Because you're vibrating around the room like you've already had four cups."

"It's just, um..." I rummage through my suitcase, pretending to search for something, anything to distract myself from August's bare chest, from the way we were spooning just minutes ago, him pressed up against me. The way he held my hand last night. How he kissed me yesterday like I was something he couldn't get enough of. The weight of his hand on my thigh, fingers biting into me.

"Just what?"

"It just feels like we're breaking a lot of the ground rules we set," I admit.

"I'm not sure I ever agreed to your ground rules," he says. I peek over at him just as he drags a hand through his hair, one foot poking out from under the comforter, his head tipped back in a yawn. It's moments like this—things he says so casually—that are leaving me so confused.

He rubs one of his eyes with the back of his hand, then tilts his head when he catches me staring again.

"I'm going to change and grab some coffee," I say quickly, reaching back down to my suitcase, aimlessly digging through it. I pull out things at random, long tan coats, jeans, Converse, and August's Red Sox hat for later when I need to hide from the paparazzi I know are waiting for me outside the hotel.

Ten minutes later, I leave August to get ready and slip out of our hotel room, heading down to the lobby where there's a small restaurant with a to-go coffee bar. When I reach the marble counter, I see a little wooden sign that reads Closed. Opens at seven am. I sigh, visibly deflating, when a familiar voice behind me says, "Didn't think I'd see you here this early in the morning."

"Oh my god," I gasp, spinning around as I clutch my chest, leaning against the counter for support. Andrea sits at a small table tucked in the corner, her laptop open in front of her, a coffee mug in hand. "Andrea, what are you doing here?"

"Working," she replies as if it's completely normal for her to be up at six in the morning, fully dressed—heels, makeup, and all—already typing away at her computer.

"It's six a.m."

"And I have things to do. A meeting to schedule for..." She pauses to glance at her phone, making sure she's got it right. "A performance review, apparently."

I roll my eyes and push off the counter, making my way to her table. Pointing at the French press in front of her, I ask, "How did you get that coffee?"

"Well, when you work for a celebrity like Maisie Rhodes, they tend to give you whatever you need, whenever you need it."

"Are you name-dropping me to get things you want?" I tease.

"Only ever for coffee," she says with a smirk, taking a sip before nodding with her chin toward the chair across from her. "Sit."

She slides the French press and a mug my way as I settle into the seat opposite her. I pour myself a cup of coffee, adding cream and sugar, and watch her type away for a moment. After a few sips of caffeine finally make their way into my system, I look up at her and deadpan, "By the way, you're fired."

She hums a laugh and pushes her laptop aside. "I take it things didn't go as planned last night."

"What exactly did you expect when you forced me to share a bed with August? Did you think I'd wake up and thank you profusely? That I'd suddenly pour out my heart to him? I bet it never even crossed your mind that one of us might have to sleep on the floor, did it? Hmm? Hmmm?"

She crosses her arms, tilting her head. "Did someone end up on the floor?"

"No," I admit reluctantly, taking another sip of coffee. "We ended up sharing the bed."

"Anything else? Any other details you're willing to share?"

I look down at my coffee, tracing the rim of my mug with my finger, mumbling out, "He's a cuddler."

"I bet he is."

I sit up straighter, doing my best to ignore her smirk. "So, who got my room, anyway?"

"Oh, I gave it to Rachel," she says with a dismissive wave. "We were working late to make sure certain photos of you didn't end up on TMZ last night, and apparently, her boyfriend lives in New York, so they stayed there."

"Photos of me?"

"Yes, the ones of you making out with August," she replies. "You're welcome, by the way—if it wasn't for me and Rachel, you'd have been the next Timothée Chalamet and Lily-Rose Depp by now."

"How did you even get those pictures?"

"I have my ways. Certain connections," she says, considering me with careful eyes. I bring the mug to my lips, taking a sip as I glance out at the quiet lobby, trying to avoid the way she is looking at me. "It's honestly painful watching you two tiptoe around each other like you're not desperately in love."

I glare at her out of the corner of my eye. "He's my best friend who's fake dating me. He's supposed to act like he's in love with me."

"Best friends don't look at each other the way you two do," she counters. "Or make out like you did yesterday— cuddle in the same bed. Are you sure nothing happened last night?"

"I think I'd remember if something happened."

"No, you're right. I'd know if you two had slept together, you wouldn't be so high-strung right now."

I sigh, frowning at her as irritation prickles beneath my skin. Because as much as I love Andrea, she has a way of pushing just a little too far sometimes.

"Sorry," she says quickly, catching the shift in my mood. She leans forward, her voice softening. "You're not high-strung, not really. It's just..." She pauses, her gaze flicking past me for a moment before locking back on me like she's found what she wants to say. "I think, Maisie, if August is showing even the slightest sign of enjoying this with you, why not test the waters? What did I tell you at the start? Use this time as a test run, a trial period. See if things work between you two. Because maybe, just maybe, August likes you just as much as you like him."

I study her for a few moments as she takes a sip of her coffee, that roguish smirk of hers barely hidden behind the rim. "A trial period?"

"A trial period," she repeats, nodding.