The next morning, it takes me a minute to realize why I’m feeling so utterly blissed out. When I do, I throw an arm over to the other side of the bed but find it empty.
I blink awake and take in Riven’s bedroom.
Where did he go?
Does he regret last night?
Was he afraid of the morning-after awkwardness?
I’m still rolling through possible worst-case scenarios in my head when he reappears on the threshold with a tray… breakfast in bed.
He’s wearing the Superman boxer shorts I bought him—he’s earned them—and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. My toes curl under the sheets and the knot of anxiety in my belly unwinds: no awkwardness here.
“Morning,” he says, coming over to the bed and placing a kiss on my forehead before dropping the tray on the mattress.
I take in the perfect display of coffe
