Emma woke to sunlight and a dead phone.
She had fallen asleep with Nick's voice in her ear, the phone pressed against her cheek, his breathing a lullaby. Sometime in the night, the battery had died. The screen was black. The silence was unfamiliar.
She sat up, groggy and disoriented. His sweater — her sweater now — was tangled around her legs. The morning light streamed through her window, too bright, too cheerful.
She plugged in her phone.
Twenty-seven messages from Olivia. Three from Chloe. One from Nick.
Nick: Good morning. I stayed on the phone until you fell asleep. You snore. It's adorable.
Emma laughed.
Emma: I do not snore.
Nick: You do. Lightly. Like a kitten.
Emma: Kittens don't snore.
Nick: This one does.
Emma smiled at her phone. She wanted to call him. She wanted to
