I wake up late the next morning. Thank Goddess for the weekend—I don't think I could have endured one more 4 a.m. morning in a row.
I take my time in the shower, hoping warm water will provide some relief to my aching muscles, but I don't bother with hair and makeup. At this time and hour, only my mom is at home, and, to be honest, no foundation I own could cover the angry purple bruise on my face.
Feeling stiff as f**k, I open my bedroom door to go hunt for some breakfast and coffee but skid to a halt when I see Ethan standing there, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands.
He is in his grey sweatpants again and a white sleeveless shirt.
Is this his home outfit? If so, it's a shame he's not around more often.
"H, hi?" I stutter a bit. Why is he home?
"I heard you get up. Though
