30 MADDY
MADDY
Why do I always have to be late?
I’m dreaming. I have to be.
My back is pressed against something firm, a slow, even heartbeat thudding softly through my shoulder blades. An arm is draped over my waist, resting loosely against my stomach, and it’s comfortable in a way that makes my stomach fill with butterflies.
If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.
I stay exactly where I am, half awake and half still dreaming, trying to enjoy it for as long as I can. I shift a little, and I feel my ass press into something hard.
Okay. This is a very weird dream.
My legs are tangled lazily with someone else’s, the blanket twisted around us, and the person behind me smells like something oddly familiar. Why am I dreaming about this? And why does this feel so real?
Wait—
WAIT.
Oh my god.
Ryan.
This is not a dream.
My eyes shoot open. The room comes into focus—the familiar living room, the faint grey light of early morning creeping through the curtains.
I bolt upright so fast the blanket goes flying off with me. “OH—!”
My heart is pounding, and everything suddenly starts making sense. Last night. The dress. The couch. The movie. We fell asleep. We fell asleep like this.
I turn slowly to my left. Ryan is still sprawled across the couch cushions, clearly jolted out of sleep by my sudden escape. His hair is even messier than usual, one arm still half-reaching toward the spot where I just was.
I jump up from the couch so fast I almost fall flat on my ass.
Ryan drags a hand through his hair, still half asleep. “You good?” he mumbles, voice rough morning voice making goosebumps rise on my arm.
“I—I have work,” I blurt, glancing toward the clock on the fridge. “Like, soon. Why are you still here?”
He blinks a few times, looking around the room. I can practically see the moment it clicks.
“Oh,” he says. He stands up. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”
“No shit!”
He winces. “I didn’t mean to. I was just—” He stops, then points lazily at me while dragging another hand through his messy hair. “You fell asleep first.”
I spin toward him. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I was going to,” he says immediately. “I swear. I just… closed my eyes for a second.”
“Why didn't the others wake us up?”
“Why do you think?” He responds. “They probably think we do this every week.”
Now we’re both standing there, awkwardly facing each other, and I’m suddenly very aware that we weren’t standing like this an hour ago. But very close. For the whole damn night.
Ryan rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the couch, his shirt shifting as he moves.
The fabric rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of his stomach—sharp lines, the beginning of a V disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
And unfortunately, the waistband of his Calvin Klein underwear.
How does he still look like that when he just woke up? And why can’t he just look like shit for once? Would be a lot more helpful in this situation.
“I’ll get my stuff,” he says, already moving toward the stairs. Before I can respond, he’s jogging up them two at a time. And less than a minute later he’s back, bag slung over his shoulder. He heads for the door, keys already in his hand.
“Good luck,” I blurt and he pauses. “With… your day,” I add quickly. “Or school. Or just—like—life.”
Ryan looks back at me, clearly trying not to laugh. “Thanks,” he says slowly. “I think.”
“Yeah. No problem,” I reply.
A smile spreads across his face. “You’re cute when you’re freaking out.”
I shove him toward the door. “Go before Noah comes down.”
Ryan snorts. “Relax. He probably thinks we had sex anyway.”
“What?!”
Ryan laughs. “I’m kidding,” he says easily. “We didn’t have sex.”
“Why would you say that?!” I hiss.
“Because,” he says, still grinning, “your reaction is hilarious.”
I push him out the door. “Bye, Ryan!”
“Bye, Mads,” he calls just before the door shuts behind him with a solid click.
I stand there for a second, with a racing mind. Which I don't have time for.
I race upstairs and throw on my work clothes in a record time. I’m pretty sure I only got half my mascara on, but I don’t even have time to care.
Why do I always have to be late?
As I’m sprinting around my room, trying to stuff my things into my bag, I hear footsteps. Noah appears in the hallway, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Why are you stomping around like a stampede?”
“Work. I’m late.”
He snorts and I grab my apron and slung it over my shoulder. “What are you doing today?”
“Dad called this morning. He needs help at the other café—ice machine’s broken again or something. So I told him I’d head over for the day. I’ll be back after dinner.”
“Wait, you’re going now?”
He nods. “I can drop you off at work if you want.”
“Bless you,” I say, rushing past him. “I owe you a muffin. Or my soul. Whichever you want.”
“Let’s start with a muffin,” he says with a grin.