Roz is asleep next to me, breathing softly, but I find myself unable to do the same. The sheets feel too soft and too scratchy all at once. This bedding doesn't smell like mine, and it doesn't smell like Roz's, and there's an unexpected chill in the room, one that gives me goosebumps and singes the inside of my nose just enough to make me glad that we didn't go skinny dipping. It's surprisingly chilly tonight.

My mind is too awake.

My fingers are practically itching for my laptop.

I glance over at Roz. She only stopped talking a few minutes ago—I don't think she's deeply asleep yet. I don't want to get out of bed and wake her up. It feels like she's only just begun to return to herself, as if she's coming back from that overstressed, strung-out place she's been existing within these past few months. It wasn't healthy. She needs her sleep.

So, I don't get up. I just lay still and stare up at the ceiling, at the slowly whirring fan. I don't need my laptop, I tell myself. It's not required to brainstorm, after all. And that's what I need to do: think of my next book.

I roll over onto my side, facing away from Roz and pressing the limp pillow to my cheek. A part of my contract was that my publisher, St. Puffin's, gets first dibs on my next book idea, my option book. I can't complain about them as a publisher—I've had a great experience with them thus far. They ticked all my boxes: they publish insanely prolific literary fiction writers (like Roz and our friend Alison Chung); they clearly value diverse authors and perspectives; and, my editor, Ilan, really brought out new dimensions in my book, ones I hadn't considered until before we went to auction.

They definitely don't want my fluffy little romance book, the one I stopped thinking about right after Roz sent me her edits on it. By the time she'd sent me her thoughts about act one, I was already about to sign with Cassidy, and I wanted to focus on The Monster Down the Lane. My brief foray into the world of romance novels was brutally cut short when Leona and Carl's story sold.

Thing is, I don't have any other serious ideas. That was my one, my one that came to me fully-formed and breathing and real. And it took me years to write it. Cassidy keeps telling me that I don't have to be a beast, like a Roz or a Nora Roberts or a Stephen King. No one says I have to come out with a new book every year. I just have to have a pitch in by the first month of my debut—but, the odds of me getting a second contract improve if I get it in before my book hits the shelves.

I don't have time to waffle about with shitty, half-baked ideas. I need to get this done.

Just, fuck, option books are a big deal. Aiden Thomas' Cemetery Boys was his second pitch—was nothing more than a short paragraph—but it was so good and so him that they delayed the publishing of his initial debut, Lost in the Never Woods, and he speed wrote Cemetery Boys to get it out in time. Second pitches can be huge.

I can't be some one-hit-wonder of an author. Pre-orders for my book have been doing well, according to Cassidy. I was on national fucking news yesterday. Like, hello? Terrifying. I'm scared to check TikTok.

I just need this book to sell well.

And the one after that.

And, hopefully, if the first two do well enough, all the ones after that.

I roll over onto my side and drum my fingers against the side of the mattress. My head sinks into the pillow, softer than my one back home, until it swallows me completely, and I have to raise my head and stuff it under my shoulder.

What do serious lit fic authors write about? Libraries? Estranged sisters and other forms of family drama? The hubris wrought by the abuse of societal privileges or some shit? The—

"Marcie?" Roz croaks, then clears her throat. Her fingers lightly brush my back. Even through the thin cotton of my tank top, I can feel the chill in her fingers. Her voice is softer this time: "I thought you fell asleep."

"Not yet," I whisper, turning back to face her. She drops her hand against the mattress, and through the thin streak of moonlight shining in from between the curtains opposite us, I can see her eyes are closed, and her mouth is screwed up in a tight little line. Her sleepy face. I do in fact love her sleepy face.

I brush a strand of hair away from her forehead and ask, "Am I keeping you up?"

"No," she says, her voice still scratchy and quiet. "How awake are you?"

"On a scale of one-to-ten? A six." It's a lie. I'm at a nine. And a half. But I don't want to keep Roz up—I'd rather her get her rest, and then I can spend time thinking about this fucking book. "What are you?"

"A four." She reaches out and blindly, haphazardly pats the side of my face. "We should kiss."

"What a revolutionary idea."

"No, just—it might distract you."

"Um, distract me?" I wish I didn't know what she was talking about. "Distract me from what?"

"You're thinking again," she says, yawning, moving to gently scratch the side of my head.

"In some cultures," I tell her, placing my hand atop hers, "they encourage that."

"Well, they're silly." She yawns again, longer this time. "Silly billies."

"You're tired," I tell her, and I hate that it feels like begging. "Honey, just sleep. I'll conk out soon. I promise."

"I refuse."

I sigh. "Okay then."

She sighs back and scooches in closer to me, till her head is tucked in against my chest and she's curved in towards me in a sort of fetal position. "Are you thinking about book two?"

"Yeah...." I run my fingers through her hair, staring at the white-painted shiplap wall behind her. Really, I think Joanna Gaines threw up in here. "I just can't think of a good premise."

"You can't force it," she says, not for the first time. I shut my eyes and try to convince myself I can sleep. "You need to stop thinking about it, and an idea will come to you."

"Yeah." That's what everyone says. Unfortunately, however, they're wrong.

"Is that the only thing on your mind?"

"Pretty much."

"C'mon. Don't bullshit me, lovely."

I open my eyes to find her looking up at me, her lips pulled in a tiny, wry smile. "I'm not bullshitting you," I promise. "Thinking only of pitches. And of you."

"Wow. Pitches and bitches."

"Your words, not mine."

"Hmph." She brings her hand up and rubs the sleep from her eyes. "How are you feeling about being out of the city? You haven't been out since...."

"Since Iowa," I say. "Since Gina and I moved from Iowa. Yeah."

"You should go back," she says. "See your parents."

"I don't know if that's a great idea." I want to rebuild my ties with them slowly but surely. I feel like Gina helped me speedrun losing my parents' approval over the course of our relationship—I want to try and mend that naturally, without forcing it. They only found out we broke up about two months ago, when we've been split up for nearly a year now.

"At least go to Iowa to visit Kestler," Roz says. "You know she's not coming here. She hates flying. And driving."

I bite my lip. "Maybe."

"It'd be good," she says, significantly softer now.

"Yeah. I mean, maybe." I look back up at the ceiling fan, its white wicker blades spinning slowly. "Do you think you'll ever move out of Manhattan?"

"To where?" she asks, so polite, yet at the same time, so incredulous. Immediately, my chest tightens, but I press on.

"Like ... I dunno." I shrug slightly. "Maybe not back to Iowa—probably not back to Iowa—but back to the Midwest? Near family? Like, the Twin Cities or something."

"I don't think so," she says, grabbing my hand and bringing it to her face, pressing her lips against the heel of my palm. "I like New York. It's easy not to feel overly important, if that makes any sense. I'm not 'Rosalind Lindbergh, world-famous author,' I'm just a face in the crowd. It's nice. And there's so much to experience, so many strangers to see and soak in and create mini universes around in your head."

"Hm. Yeah. That makes sense."

"What about you?" Even in the darkness, her eyes are big and wide and surprisingly doe-ish. "Do you think you'll ever move?"

I half-shrug. "We'll see. I feel a little ... swallowed up by the city sometimes." I wait to see her response. For some validation. When she says nothing, I add, "Like, do you ever feel like it just takes more than it gives? If it, like, drains you, and saps your creativity?"

"Oh." She closes her eyes. "Honestly, no? I feel really invigorated by the city, I won't lie. I don't think I'd be nearly so creative anywhere else."

"Dang." I exhale slowly. "You're, like, a perfect author archetype."

"That's why you think I'm so hot. I'm your archetype."

"Oookay, buckaroo. Go to sleep."

She grumbles softly. "But I'm more awake now," she whines. "I'm at, like, a seven out of ten. I don't wanna go to sleep."

"You're how old again?"

"Thirty. Thirty, flirty, and thriving." She opens her eyes again, peering at me through the darkness. "We should, like, totally make out."

"You're, like, a horny eighteen-year-old."

"You, like, love it."

"Do I?" I ask, already leaning in. Our lips meet, and quickly, our initial light, tired kisses turn into something fiercer, something harder. We're pulling each other in, in, in, and suddenly she's sitting up and straddling me, barely breaking contact all the while. She finds my wrists and gently pulls my hands away from where they're currently tangled in her hair. She pins them lightly against the mattress almost like goalposts, and I find my arms go limp—they're happy there.

Roz moves to press light kisses against my jaw. "I thought you were tired?" I ask her, furling my fists and trying not to smile.

"What I am is wet."

"What? No. I don't believe you."

"Hm. How ever shall I prove this to you?"

I bite back a groan as she presses a sloppier kiss against my neck. "I don't know." My voice is already somewhat strangled. I fight the urge to press my thighs any tighter together. "You're little miss creative. Think of something."

"Maybe you should eat me out," she suggests. It's a soft murmur, uttered right against my ear as I fight the urge to writhe in anticipation beneath her. "Would you like that?"

I ignore the cartoonish WOULD I? that rings in my head, loud and clear, and go for something a little smoother: "That's certainly creative."

"Thank you," she says, already letting go of my hands to shift her weight back, already unbuttoning her cornflower blue pajama top. The silk falls away from her chest inch by inch, until it falls away completely. Somehow, the sight of a completely topless Roz still renders me breathless.

In the thin shaft of moonlight, I can tell that her gaze is focused on me as she tosses her shirt onto the ground. Her smooth skin practically glows in the near-darkness.

"So," she says, tucking locks of unruly hair behind each ear, "where do you want me?"

"Gee, I don't know.... I'm feeling pretty ... lazy." Her lips have worked into a sly grin before I finish. "On top of me might be the best option."

"You're lucky I'm so generous," she says, moving out of her straddling position and removing the sleep shorts she stole from me and her panties. "You're really making me do all the work, huh?"

"You said you're not tired. Not my fault."

"You're right, you're right." She bends over and presses a quick kiss against my lips. "I'll do the work for you, darling."

"If this is your way of telling me that you're about to ride the fuck out of my face," I tell her, "then I'm honestly not even sure what you're waiting for."

I can never do it like she does—situate myself over someone else's face. I'm always off-balance and terrified and trepidatious. So many things could go wrong: I could fall off, or I could suffocate her like the Revolting Blob, or I could break her nose or something.

Roz, on the other hand, has mastered it. She swings one leg over my face, settling down till I feel her wetness against my nose, then my mouth, and her thighs suddenly grip my head with the perfect amount of pressure.

For all her talk, Roz never lasts long when we do this. By now, I've learned exactly what she likes—how she grinds, where and how fast and how hard she wants my tongue, when to reinforce my grip on her thick thighs as they tighten around my head. Within minutes, her grinding becomes erratic, and her hands tighten in my hair, and she begins to make these soft, shaky little gasps.

"Fuck, Marcie," she says, her voice like a strained yet sultry whine. Her thighs tighten, and I'm not entirely sure how I'm breathing—I only know that, somehow, by the grace of god, I am. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm so fucking close. Fuck."

I can't speak, so I just hum appreciatively against her. Which is what does it, of course.

She lets out a single shaky gasp—"Oh"—then comes undone above me, her movement stopping, and her weight increasing as she keels forward, shuddering.

She takes a moment to catch her breath before shifting off me, still trying to catch her breath as she lays next to me.

"You're a magician," she says. "Next you're going to pull a rabbit out of a hat or something."

"I've got a wand, and a rabbit." I smile and watch her come down from her high, her eyes squinted shut in the darkness as her breathing steadies. She doesn't like to be touched immediately after she comes, which I could never relate to, but follow nevertheless.

"Ughhh," she says, finally reaching out and lacing our fingers, "this means I have to go pee now."

"That's my worst nightmare. Peeing."

"Mm, you have that vibe. Pee-phobic" She stretches. "How about I make you have to pee as well?"

"Oh nooo. That would be terrible."

She's grinning now. "What can I say? I'm a terrible person."

"I love you," I mutter. "You're the best."

"You're the best," she says. "And I love you more."

"I love you mo—"

"Shhhh," she says, sitting up and pressing a few fingers against my lips. "Shh now. And take off your pants."

I pretend to contemplate. She taps her fingers against my Cupid's bow, only stopping when I smile. "Hm. If you insist."

She presses a quick kiss against my mouth. "That's what I like to hear."