Neither of us moved. We lay there, tangled under Mrs. Knickerbocker's wedding ring quilt, legs intertwined, and my arm draped across Wes's chest. The previous day's cliff adventure had left us both with an assortment of bruises and scrapes, but nothing that prevented us from finding ways to fit together in the narrow guestroom bed comfortably.
Wes reached up, thumb tracing the purple bruise that decorated my temple where I'd connected with the granite. "How's your head?"
"Functional." I caught his hand and pressed it flat against my cheek. "How's your knee?"
"Ornery, but nothing I can't handle. I went to the bathroom in the night, and it served its function to get me there."
The floorboards in the hallway groaned under rapid footsteps. Someone outside the room was on a mission. As I leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Wes's cheek, a rapid knock on the door interrupted.
"You two alive in there?" It was Ziggy's voice pitched low enough to be considerate but loud enough to ensure we'd hear him. "Mom's been stress-baking since five AM, and if you don't get down here soon, I'm eating all the evidence."
Wes groaned, burying his face in the pillow beside my head. His voice came out muffled. "That kid has more energy before breakfast than most people manage all day."
I bit back laughter, not wanting to encourage the campaign to roust us from bed. Through the lace curtains, the October morning painted everything in shades of amber and copper—a perfect autumn morning.
"Last call for muffins and chaos!" Ziggy's voice rose to normal volume, no longer focused on gentle waking.
"We're coming," I called back.
"Excellent! Fair warning—Dad's already made three pots of coffee, and Mom's interrogating everyone about whether they want scrambled or over easy. The kitchen's basically a breakfast war zone."
Ziggy's footsteps retreated down the hallway as he hummed the wedding march.
Wes lifted his head from the pillow, hair even more disheveled than before. "Think he knows?"
"About what? That we shared a bed in his parents' guest room after nearly dying on a cliff?" I chuckled and stretched, working out the kinks that came from sleeping on a mattress older than both of us combined. "I'm pretty sure figuring us out doesn't require a degree in rocket science."
"Point taken."
The smell of bacon joined the cinnamon-vanilla symphony drifting upstairs, and my stomach growled. Wes sat up with the quilt pooling around his waist. "Guess we should face the music."
I rolled out of bed, immediately missing the warmth of our shared body heat. The hardwood floor was cold enough to make me dance from foot to foot while I searched for the clothes I'd abandoned the night before.
Wes watched me from the bed. "Yesterday, when we were stuck on that ledge..." He paused, searching for words. "I meant what I said about wanting you to stay."
"I know you did."
From somewhere below us, Mrs. Knickerbocker's voice rose in mock exasperation: "Zachary Knickerbocker, if you eat that entire batch of blueberry muffins before our guests make it downstairs…"
We expedited our dressing process. When we arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Knickerbocker moved back and forth from counter to stove with a spatula in hand. Ziggy perched on a wooden stool beside the center island, one foot planted firmly on the floor while the other swung in restless arcs beneath him. He'd already conquered half a blueberry muffin, crumbs decorating the front of his UMaine hockey sweatshirt.
"There they are!" He gestured with the remaining muffin half as Wes and I appeared in the doorway. "The survivors of yesterday's geological experiment. How'd you sleep? Any nightmares about falling rocks?"
I accepted the mug of coffee Mrs. Knickerbocker pressed into my hands before I fully entered the room. "I think you were the interrogator in my dreams, Zig."
Mr. Knickerbocker stood guard over the coffee station, treating the ritual of pouring fresh cups with the ceremonial gravity of a priest blessing communion wine. He handed Wes a steaming mug with exaggerated solemnity.
"Big day of sitting in lectures and eating sad food service grub ahead?" he asked Ziggy, who was already fidgeting with the car keys he'd pulled from his pocket.
"Gotta make it back to Orono before the dining hall runs out of tofu surprise. It's Thursday—if I'm late, I'll be stuck with mystery meat casserole for dinner."
Wes gasped as he settled onto a stool. "The horror."
"Exactly! See, this guy gets it." Ziggy bumped Wes's shoulder. "You should come visit campus sometime. I'll give you the grand tour of institutional mediocrity."
Mrs. Knickerbocker emerged from the pantry carrying a brown paper bag. "For the road," she announced, pressing it into Ziggy's hands."
The bag disappeared into his backpack. He stood, stretching his arms overhead until his joints popped in a symphony of snaps and cracks.
