I rise with the sun. I try sleeping, but the night keeps coming to me in waves, like my brain is an asshole and won't let me forget every single word I've said. When I finally do accept the reality that sleep is no longer an option, I take a shower, getting as clean as humanely possible under the coldest running water in history. It's easy to move under the pale yellow light, the house's shiny, smooth surfaces sloshing me to the kitchen like water in a bathtub.

Mom still hasn't messaged me back.

Aiden comes down about an hour later, looking just as bad, if not worse, than me. He has showered, with not a hair out of place. I’d be impressed if everything else wasn’t dripping in exhaustion – posture, shoulders, hands. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What are you making?” he asks, leaning against the kitchen island. His shoulders slide back as he straightens himself out, and his shoulders become this wonderful arch under the morning light.

I sigh. “I...didn't want to overstep my boundaries with what I could get away with, so I thought...pancakes?” I hold up the bag of mix. “That okay?”

“I said you could raid the kitchen,” he says, sliding along the counter’s edge.

“Still. Didn’t want to poke in where I wasn't wanted.”

Aiden hums, whether in agreement or not, I don't know. He smirks softly until he's within arm's length of me.

I put out a plate in front of him. “Sorry for keeping you up.”

“This wasn't you. I slept badly.”

“Same.”

“Oh?” he asks, the question more surprised than anything, but Aiden doesn't press. At first. He's leaning forward, stare curious and uncertain.

I scratch my neck and turn away. “Yeah,” I stammer. “It – it wasn't anything you did.”

“Was it the bed?” Aiden asks. I can almost hear him say that he'll get a new bed if I say.

I snort. “No, it's not – the bed was fine. I just...had a lot on my mind. That's all.”

“Like what?”

He shouldn't be asking that. That's a gun waiting to go off no matter how my brain spins it. How would I even go about explaining, “I couldn't sleep because I know you like me and knowing that is kind of awful but I kind of adore you in a way I didn't think I would, but I don't want to scare you off, I don’t know if it’s a selfish ‘want’ or something I 'need', I don't want this to inevitably implode, and you should probably be with someone better than me” without it sounding desperate and sad?

I settle on the vague, “Things.”

He hums again, nodding, though I can't tell if it's a listening hum or a I-Am-Distracted-But-Want-You-To-Feel-Heard hum. “Has your mom gotten back to you yet?”

“No.”

He hums again, nodding, though I can't tell if it's a listening hum or an I-Am-Distracted-But-Want-You-To-Feel-Heard hum. “Has your mom gotten back to you yet?”

“No.”

He hums again. Aiden's stance gives nothing away; he's turned towards me like he's done a million times before, and if it weren't for the ungodly hour, nothing would be out of the ordinary.

I kneel down and start looking for a mixing bowl. The kitchen lacks any kind of organization that makes sense. Who thought it would be a good idea to put the fancy dinner plates under the oven? “Where are your bowls? And mixing spoons?” When he doesn't answer, my stomach starts churning. The silence makes me believe I've let something slip.

“To the left,” Aiden finally says.

I let out a shaking breath and try to steady myself. Aiden Martin is not the kind of person to intentionally make someone uncomfortable no matter how much he secretly hates them (though I also don't think Aiden has a petty bone in his body). Cooking distracts me from him just long enough to regain composure, because not looking at him leaves this unnerved feeling in me, like he's holding back from confessing his love as long as I didn't look at him.

If that makes sense.

When I finally do serve up breakfast, it's a lackluster appearance. The pancakes are misshapen and some are burnt, but I managed to decorate it enough with a slice of butter and some maple syrup that's about to expire according to the bottle.

Aiden looks at it like I've just made a Michelin-style meal, gray eyes sparkling and wiggling in awe. His easy smile remains plastered on his face, and when he looks at me, that lightness feels so prevalent. “They look great.”

“Were you hoping I'd be reheating the Hawaiian pizza?”

He laughs. “Secretly, absolutely.”

“You're such a liar.”

“Can you blame me?” he asks, shrugging. He slides away from the counter and goes to a drawer by the sink, withdrawing two sets of cutlery. He places them gently on the counter between the both of us. They barely make a sound, and he takes the time to arrange them like we're in a restaurant, straight and tidy. “I mean, I know the appeal of Hawaiian pizza, but I'd rather have pancakes.”

“I think most people would want pancakes over Hawaiian.”

Aiden hums, and his lacking response makes me smirk. He starts cutting into the pancakes.

We eat. He radiates quiet awkwardness – rigid shoulders, partly turned away, slumped back, eyes stuck on the food – which I am fine with. It doesn't help that I feel just as awkward as he does, though probably not in the same way as I am. In all likelihood, he's thinking about the embarrassing things he said to me last night. Meanwhile, I'm wondering how long it's going to be before Aiden wrecks me.

“Hey, if your mom doesn't get back to you,” he starts after who knows how long it's been, “I can call you an Uber if you want. You probably have work that needs doing before Monday.”

“I can, just, take the bus,” I mutter. “When they start running.”

“I don't mind calling an Uber for you.”

“I know. I just...don't want to impose.” I start picking, the fork's tongs shredding the food as I twist it along its edge. “I've already kind of done that already.”

“Nah,” he says easily. “I'd offer any of my friends to stay the night if they were in the same situation.” Aiden pauses. “Though...they'd probably get an Uber if that were the case.” Realization hits him like a rock, and his facade falls slightly.

“Because they're so rich and I'm so not?” I smirk and watch him squirm under the question before he gives up and smiles back.

“I didn't say that,” he says. “Regardless, I'd still offer it to any one of my friends.”

“I mean, who can even afford to go to Brookfell if they don't sit on a million dollar toilet?”

Aiden laughs. The sound is a bubble, sudden and brief but wonderful, and lights the kitchen better than the morning sun. His shoulders relax and become that wonderful arch as he opens towards me again. His eyes linger. “Is that one of the school requirements now? A million dollar toilet?”

I shrug. “I didn't get a scholarship not being a bit of a smart ass.”

He laughs again.

I glance down at my pancakes, appetite evaporated. “I meant what I said. I won't say anything.”

Aiden puts down his fork and knife. He looks at me with his easy smile. “I won't say anything, either.”

I want to rebuff him, reiterate the point I made already. That he could call me an illegal alien or a scholarship grifter and it wouldn't change anything. Aiden Martin would glow like a lighthouse in a storm, and I would be one of the rocks that dots the shoreline, and whatever he said would be taken as gospel. If I said anything, the backlash against me would probably boot me out of Brookfell. The thought is enticing, but Aiden would be hurt by it.

I glance at my cooling pancakes.

Nerves dance through my fingers. I wish I could go back and uncross those lines, and un-break through those barriers. I wish I could unlearn everything I've ever known about Aiden, and go back to being confused as to why someone as wonderful as him would ever like me. Go back to when the world was defined by two locations – Brookfell and home – and not a person.

“Eat,” he says with a gentleness that feels akin to being wrapped in a warm blanket. He nudges me with his elbow. “I'll take you to the bus stop after this, okay? And I'll pay for your ticket. Don't argue with me. I won't take 'no' as an answer.”

“Aiden – ”

“I said I wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.” He smiles his easy smile – and I know that wasn't what he wanted to say; his eyes linger on me too long – and goes back to eating.

I was hoping he'd ask me to stay for the day. Even just for the morning. Something so small, so minutely selfish, just so we could spend more time together.

“Hey,” I whisper, leaning forward. “Do you want to swap numbers?”