Ellery
Sunlight was the enemy.
It speared through the blinds and straight into my skull, dragging me out of sleep and into a hangover that felt downright biblical. My mouth was dry, my head pounded, and something was definitely trying to die in the back of my throat.
I groaned and rolled over, ready to curse the universe, when I noticed the nightstand. There was an empty glass of water, two aspirin tablets, and a folded note in handwriting I recognized instantly—messy, impatient, definitely Beckett’s.
Drink water, dream girl. Don’t call me next time.
I dropped the note and let out another groan, louder this time, covering my face with a pillow. “Oh, my…” I muttered into the cotton. “No, no, no.”
Bits of memory shuffled forward like uninvited guests—his truck, his hand steadying me on the porch, me saying something about a dream… oh gosh, the dream. Then a flash of warmth, lips maybe—had I kissed him? Had he kissed me? Or was that still part of the dream?
I peeked out from under the pillow, as if the answer might be written on my ceiling. “You did not call him,” I told myself out loud. “You absolutely did not.”
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, the brightness of the screen searing my already fragile retinas. Ten outgoing calls. All to Beckett Mason.
“Oh no,” I whispered, sinking deeper into the sheets. “Oh no, no, no.”
The timestamps were all between midnight and two a.m. Apparently, drunk me had been very committed to humiliation as a lifestyle choice. I scrolled through the call log with mounting horror and spotted one actual connected call. Ten minutes long.
“Ten minutes,” I said to the ceiling, equal parts disbelief and dread. “What on earth did I talk about for ten minutes?”
I closed my eyes, but that didn’t stop the memory from bubbling up—my own voice, slurred and far too cheerful, asking him why he had sex with me in my dream.
I buried my face in the pillow again. “I’m moving to another country,” I muttered. “New name, new passport, new everything.”
The worst part was that I could almost feel him in the room, the ghost of him—his quiet steadiness, his stupid smirk, the way his voice could tilt between teasing and something else entirely.
I sat up, squinting around the room. No Beckett.
No evidence of last night except the note, the aspirin, and the faint, traitorous warmth sitting low in my chest.
I picked up the note again, reading it a second time. Drink water, dream girl. Don’t call me next time.
It was such a Beckett thing to say—half sarcasm, half concern.
“Dream girl,” I whispered, testing the words like they might bite.
I flopped back down, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere between the mortification and the headache, a laugh slipped out—quiet, exhausted, but real.
Because as horrifying as it was, the thought that he’d actually shown up… that he’d held my hair back, tucked me in, left me aspirin and a note…
That part didn’t feel like a mistake at all.
And that, unfortunately, was the most dangerous thought of all.
Naomi and I looked like a cautionary tale for responsible adulthood.
It was mid-morning at the foundation, sunlight far too bright, air-conditioning far too cold, and both of us shuffling through the door like survivors of an apocalypse. Sunglasses on, messy buns barely holding, iced coffee cups practically glued to our hands.
“If you make any sudden movements,” Naomi groaned, lowering herself into her chair like it might explode, “I’ll cry.”
“Don’t worry,” I muttered, setting my drink down with surgical precision. “I might throw up.”
She managed a weak grin. “Good. Teamwork.”
We both laughed—well, wheezed—then turned to our laptops.
The sound of clicking keys and the faint hum of the coffee machine were the only things keeping me tethered to reality.
My head still throbbed, my stomach still protested, and the memory of last night kept sneaking up like a punchline to a joke I didn’t want to hear.
Drink water, dream girl. Don’t call me next time.
I winced. I’d reread Beckett’s note twice that morning before throwing it in the trash, and somehow, it still echoed in my brain. Every time I thought about it, my heart did this embarrassing little skip—equal parts mortification and something dangerously close to giddiness.
Naomi glanced at me over the rim of her coffee. “You’re quiet. Should I be concerned?”
“Just reliving my poor life choices,” I said.
“So, business as usual.”
“Pretty much.”
We fell into a rhythm, triaging sponsor emails, flagging invoices, pretending to be functional human beings. I’d just started to feel like maybe, maybe, the day wouldn’t completely implode when the front door opened. Loudly.
The sound was sharp enough to make Naomi flinch and me nearly spill my coffee.
“Oh, for the love of—” she started, but her voice cut off as we both turned toward the entrance.
Beckett Mason stood in the doorway, sunlight slashing across his shoulders, cap backward, gym bag slung over one arm like he owned the place. He looked annoyingly awake—sweat-damp from practice, smug in that way people only are when they’ve been productive before 10 a.m.
My brain short-circuited for half a second.
No. No, no, no. God wouldn’t.
Naomi leaned closer and whispered, “Oh, my gosh."
“Don’t.” I cut her off before she could finish the sentence.
Beckett’s gaze landed on me instantly, like he’d already guessed what I’d been saying. The corners of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—more like a silent morning, dream girl.
I straightened in my chair, adjusting my sunglasses even though we were indoors. “You’re early,” I said, aiming for professional and probably landing somewhere near defensive.
“Couldn’t sleep after morning practice,” he said. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”
Naomi made a tiny choking sound that might have been laughter.
I forced a smile that felt about as steady as a house of cards. “Great. Because what we really need right now,” I said, voice tight, “is enthusiasm.”
He smirked, leaning on the doorframe. “Good thing I brought plenty.”
Naomi kicked me under the desk, muttering, “You’re so dead.”
She wasn’t wrong. Because no amount of coffee—or aspirin—was going to save me from this particular hangover.
Beckett strolled in like he was auditioning for the role of my personal tormentor. The door hadn’t even finished swinging shut before he dropped a clipboard onto my desk with a crack loud enough to make Naomi and me both flinch.
“Morning, sunshine!” he announced, far too cheerful for someone who’d witnessed me at my lowest.
I winced. “Why are you yelling?”
He leaned against the doorway, all smug and infuriating. “Just projecting. You know, since you were yelling at me on the phone last night about dream crimes.”
Naomi froze mid-sip of her iced coffee. Then her head snapped toward me, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. “Dream crimes?”
I groaned. “Naomi, don’t.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely doing,” she said, grinning like she’d been waiting her whole life for this.
Beckett’s smirk deepened, feeding off my misery. “Yeah,” he said, looking way too pleased with himself. “She accused me of seducing her in her subconscious. Then hung up to go dance with another man who turned out to be you, apparently.”
Naomi nearly spit out her coffee. “You what?” she gasped, turning back to me. “Ellery!”
“I hate both of you,” I said, sinking lower in my chair until the desk almost hid me.
Naomi cackled, full-blown delighted now. “I knew I liked you,” she said to Beckett. “You’re chaos with muscles.”
He gave a modest shrug, clearly thriving. “I try.”
“I’m resigning,” I muttered, covering my face with one hand. “Effective immediately.”
Beckett’s laugh rumbled low and warm. “Nope. You still owe me coffee for babysitting you.”
I peeked through my fingers to glare at him. “I don’t recall signing any agreement that involved public humiliation.”
He grinned. “You called me ten times, James. And that was after I showed up. Public humiliation was part of the deal.”
Naomi clapped a hand over her mouth, snorting into her drink. “Ten? Oh, this just keeps getting better.”
I shot her a look that could have leveled small buildings. “Naomi.”
“Ellery,” she said sweetly. “You’re living my favorite rom-com.”
Beckett folded his arms, that crooked smile still playing on his lips. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not judging. I’ve been told I leave quite the impression.”
“That’s one word for it,” I muttered.
“What’s another?”
“Infuriating.”
He chuckled, low and genuine, and for some reason, the sound did something unsettling to my stomach. He leaned forward, resting his hands on my desk, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“You know,” he said, voice dropping just enough to make my pulse jump, “if you wanted a redo of the dream, you could’ve just asked.”
I threw a pen at him.
He caught it effortlessly, still smiling. “Careful, James. That almost sounded like flirting.”
“Go file something,” I snapped, but my voice wasn’t half as sharp as it should’ve been.
Naomi's eyes flicked from him to me, lips curving into a sly little grin. “I’m gonna… go check the donor spreadsheet,” she said slowly. “In another building.”
“Naomi—” I started, but she was already backing toward the door, clutching her coffee like a lifeline.
“Good luck!” she sang, vanishing before I could form a rebuttal.
The silence that followed felt heavy and sharp all at once.
I turned to Beckett, narrowing my eyes. “You planned that.”
He raised both hands, feigning innocence. “I’m not that smart. But I’ll take the credit.”
I crossed my arms, glaring to cover the warmth creeping up my neck. “Of course you will.”
He grinned, leaning against the edge of the desk like he owned it. “Admit it—you’d miss me if I stopped showing up.”
“I’d sleep better,” I shot back, even though the truth was the opposite.
His smile tilted, softer now, less teasing. “You could use some sleep.”