ONCE MORE, WITH YOU

XII

Solené Beckett

I woke abruptly, a subtle shift beneath me pulling me from sleep. My eyes snapped open, and I quickly realized where I was—or rather, who I was on. Summer and I were tangled together on her couch, limbs a mess of closeness and comfort.

I blinked, disoriented, and tried to process the scene. I was half-lying on top of her, our legs intertwined, her arm resting lazily across my waist as though it had always belonged there.

How did we even end up like this?

Regret surged through me as I pieced together fragments of last night. I had been drinking—a lot—and when I drank too much, I often said things I shouldn't. The thought of what I might've confessed to Summer sent a wave of anxiety rolling through me.

My inner spiral was cut short when I heard her groggy voice murmur, soft and almost teasing: "Lay back down. It's too early."

"I didn't mean to fall asleep on you," I stammered, feeling my cheeks warm. "I was probably a mess last night, I'm so sorry—"

"Sol," she interrupted, her voice still thick with sleep, "just lay back down. It's okay." Her eyes stayed shut, but there was an undeniable tenderness in her tone that made me pause.

I hesitated, but her arm tightened just slightly, pulling me back toward her. Against my better judgment, I gave in, letting my head rest on her chest once more. Her heartbeat was steady, calming, and before I knew it, I was drifting off again.

The second time I woke, the couch felt emptier. Summer was no longer beside me. I sat up, yawning as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, the sunlight streaming through the windows sharper now. Stretching lazily, I got to my feet and decided to find a bathroom to freshen up.

After wandering through what felt like half her house—five wrong doors later—I finally located one. I brushed my teeth with a spare toothbrush I found in a drawer, washed my face, and even applied some of the skincare products I discovered in another drawer. Not my usual routine, but desperate times called for resourcefulness.

Feeling a little more human, I headed back downstairs, drawn by the sound of music drifting from the kitchen. I followed it and paused in the doorway, the scene before me tugging a small smile to my lips.

Summer was swaying to the rhythm of How Many Drinks by Miguel, a wine glass in her hand. The deep red liquid inside looked like cranberry juice—although knowing her, I wasn't entirely sure. She was barefoot, her hair loose, and completely engrossed in her attempt to cook.

Key word: attempt.

Her focus was split between the music and what could only generously be called a pancake. It was misshapen and a little burnt at the edges, and I couldn't help myself.

"Is that supposed to be a pancake?" I called, breaking her reverie.

She spun around in surprise, clutching her chest. "You scared me!"

"Sorry," I said, trying to suppress a laugh. "I didn't mean to. But seriously—what is that?"

Summer's lips twitched like she wanted to argue, but she glanced back at the pan and sighed dramatically. "It's a work in progress," she admitted, trying to salvage what was left of the poor pancake.

"That's generous," I teased, stepping closer.

"Don't test me this early," she warned with a playful glare, and I couldn't help but laugh as the tension from earlier melted away.

Gently, I placed my hands on her waist, guiding her toward the kitchen island as I tried to ignore the effect even that small contact had on me. Her skin felt warm through the thin fabric of her shirt, and I swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts away. I pulled out a stool and motioned for her to sit down.