Dichotomy.

I wake up with my face inches away from hers.

It takes me about two seconds to remember where I am and why.

Her lips are gathered into a slight pout, half her face buried in her pillow. The sun coming in through the window makes her messy hair look a vivid red that I hate for no real reason.

I hate her stupid barely-there freckles that I can’t even see at the moment.

Suddenly, her eyes open and lock with mine.

I stare back blankly and unmoving.

First, her gray-green irises reflect confusion back at me. Then comes the realization of what we’ve done, followed by an annoyed expression I know only very well.

I hate that still want her right now.

“Fucking reckless,” she mutters into her pillow, turning away from me.

I don’t say anything back.

She gets out of bed, wrapping thin sheet around herself that trails behind her at her feet.

I sit up in her bed, yawning and running a hand through my mussed hair.

She yanks open a dresser drawer to rummage through. She looks up, unintentionally meeting my eyes in the mirror in front of her.

I open my mouth to say something, but I don’t really know what.

“What?” she asks in a measured tone.

I look away and reach for my boxers on the floor instead.

“I hope you know this doesn’t change anything.” She pulls her shirt over her head as she throws these words at me, her voice level and harsh.

Rewind to when I should have just left last night.

“Did I say I wanted anything to change?” I retort. “What, are you afraid I’ll fall in love with you?” I snort derisively. She scowls at me.

The truth is…maybe I’m a little afraid.

“No, I just know you’ll think I’ll be up for this whenever you’re bored on tour next week,” she retorts.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I drawl, scowling right back at her as I take my time dressing myself.

“Whatever, Brendon,” she replies, and it’s obvious her annoyance is rising yet again.

“I should go,” I state, already halfway to the door.

“Yeah,” she replies, turning away.

I pause at her door.

“I emailed you some song demos yesterday,” I inform her. “Let me know what you think.”

She doesn’t answer, but gives a slight nod of her head, her back still turned to me.

I leave, and I can’t identify how I feel.

I don’t feel guilty.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

We’re adults.

Co-workers.

That’s all.

I don’t know what to feel.