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I step further into the room, closing the door behind me, and take a seat on the edge of the bed beside her. A wide grin spreads across her face.

“Thanks, captain grumps.”

“Captain Grumps?” I echo.

“Yeah. Because you’re always so serious. Grumpy,” she explains with a giggle.

Am I? Yeah, I guess I am. It’s not just a mood, it’s a constant state of being. Everything and everyone tends to annoy or bore me.

But her? She’s different.

She cuts through the noise, makes me feel something real. I want to tell her that, let her know she’s the exception. But I keep it to myself.

“Right,” I respond, my tone curt, unintentionally proving her point.

This earns a giggle from her, and despite my efforts to maintain composure, a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

“You’re not so bad,” she says with a yawn, her words slightly muffled.

“Pardon?” I ask, leaning in to catch her words again.

She takes off her gold hoop earrings, placing them on the bedside table. “I guess you’re not so bad,” she finally concedes.

I watch her, marvelling at how she manages to stay so sincere, even with the haze of alcohol. Some might argue that alcohol often leads to saying things you don’t mean, clouding your judgement. But with her, it seems different—her words remain genuine.

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.”

“I mean it.”

She yawns again, and a thought crosses my mind that maybe Ishould leave, let her rest. But alas, I remain seated, my gaze fixed downward, arms still resting on my knees.

“Do you think I’m too frigid?” she says abruptly, breaking the silence. I turn my head to her in surprise.

Did I hear her right?

She must see the look of sheer surprise on my face because she quickly adds, “OMG, forget I even asked that. Sorry.”

Her and hersorry’s.She has a habit of saying that too much.

“I shouldn’t have asked. Never mind. That’s a question for friends, I guess,” she mumbles. “I’m not even sure why I said that. It just popped into my head, and I blurted it out without even thinking.” She lets out a nervous laugh, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt as she rambles on.

“I’m not even sure if we’re really friends, you know? I mean, apart from you being Olivia’s brother, we don’t know each other all that well. And even then, we’ve never really hung out one-on-one like this before, so…” She trails off, her uncertainty hanging heavy in the air.

Well, shit.

She’s clearly flustered, her words spilling out in a nervous stream. It’s endearing, in a way, how she rambles on, her face flushed with embarrassment. Despite her attempts to backtrack and apologise, I can’t help but find her babbling strangely charming. It’s like she’s trying to make light of the situation, to ease the tension that has settled between us.

Her mention of not being sure if we’re friends stings a little, though. It’s true, we don’t know each other well, apart from thefact that I’m Olivia’s brother. That’s how it should stay. But there’s something about her vulnerability, her honesty in this moment, that makes me pause.

Iwantto be her friend.

Yet, her questioning our friendship makes me realise how little we’ve actually talked, how little I know about her. I’ve never been one to seek friendships easily, preferring solitude over idle chatter. Yet, with her, it’s different. I should tread carefully. But right now, as she sits before me, vulnerable and uncertain, I realise I want to be more than just herbest friend’s brother.

“If you haven’t already gathered, I’m a bit of a yappa. I ramblea lot!”

No kidding.

“My students tell me all the time. I mean, for a five-year-old child who never stops talking to tell a grown woman she talks too much…” Her words trail off, and she exhales. “Yikes. I just can’t help it, I guess. It’s like my brain is always on overdrive, and I just start talking before I can stop myself. Honestly, sometimes I think I should come with a warning label or something. Maybe ‘Warning: Prone to Excessive Rambling,’” she finishes, and I just study her, watching her expression, not knowing what to say.