Ugh, pathetic.

So much for the strong woman I felt like last night, owning her sexuality and taking what she wants from the world. I've reverted about a decade, to the pouty, moody pre-teen who gave her mother a fit for refusing to let her to stay out past dark so she could go to a school dance.

"So unfair," I mutter, slouching in the cool leather seat. The gaudy evening gown feels absurd this morning, big and showy and heavy against my skin.

Naz chuckles beside me. He's got his feet kicked up with his suit half fixed, the tie knotted loosely, the jacket and vest resting beside him on the seat. His eyes are on his phone, doing whatever it is he does. I don't know.

"You have nobody to blame but yourself," he says. "I told you, you're welcome to come home with me."

"But you have stuff to do, and I'm still wearing this dress, and I really need to shower, and I have class in the morning anyway, so I should just head back to the dorm, you know, because of all that."

"So I've heard."

It's the third time I've ran through all of my excuses on why I need to go, but I don't sound any more certain than I did the first time. Every bit of it is true, sure, but I'm dreading saying goodbye to this man.

So I pout some more.

"You know I have hot water," he says, "and clean clothes."

"Women's clothes?"

He laughs again. "I'm afraid not, but I'm sure I have something you can fit."

"I bet I'd look great in one of your suits."

That draws his attention. His eyes scan me for a second as he raises an eyebrow, a look of curiosity on his face. "Huh."

Huh. That's all he says before turning right back to his phone.

"I still have school tomorrow," I point out.

"I can drop you off in the morning," he says.

"But don't you have stuff to do?" I ask. "I wouldn't want to bother you."

"Yes, but you wouldn't be bothering me."

He has an answer for everything, but still, I just sit in the back of the car and pout as the driver heads through Greenwich Village, straight toward NYU. The car pulls up to the curb when we arrive, the driver getting out. Naz puts his phone down, his hand covering my cheek as he leans over to kiss me.

I don't know what to say, figuring I've said it all already when I thanked him half a dozen times for the great night, so I say nothing, getting out when the driver opens the door for me. I make the trek inside barefoot, carrying my shoes, and dig my ID out of my purse to scan myself inside.

I can feel eyes on me as I stroll through the lobby, feel them on me while I wait for the elevator, feel them on me during the trip upstairs, acutely aware that I'm doing the most obvious walk of shame of all time.

But I'm not ashamed, not in the least.

I stroll down the hallway when I reach the thirteenth floor, straight to my room in the corner. Loud rap music pours from it, rattling the walls. My hand grasps the knob and turns as soon as I get there, grateful Melody never locks the damn door because I don't think I have my key. As soon as I start to open it, I hear her voice.

"Oh God, oh yes!" she cries. "Just like that!"

The thump-thump-thumping of her bed hitting the wall sounds like a jackhammer. I stall instantly, not wanting to see what's going on in there. My hand is off the knob again, the door clicking closed, neither of them even hearing it from the way she cries out.

"Oh, Paul, baby, you feel so good!"

Cringing, I walk away, shaking my head. Awkward. On my way back to the elevator, I pull out my phone, letting out a resigned sigh as I dial the number. I press the down arrow just as he answers.

Naz foregoes any sort of greeting, merely saying, "I'm waiting downstairs."

He is. The car is still parked there, exactly where it was when I got out, the driver waiting by the curb. He opens the door for me, and I slide in, seeing Naz still focused on his phone, looking just as casual.

His eyes cut to me when the door closes. "Huh."

"Huh," I echo. "What does 'huh' mean?"

It's his second favorite thing to say, besides 'nonsense'.

"It means it didn't take you as long as I thought it would to change your mind. I expected you to at least change before you started regretting it."

"And what, you were just going to sit down here?" I ask. "How long would you have waited?"

"As long as it took."

"And if I didn't change my mind?"

"You would've," he says, matter-of-fact. "You like me."

"I like you?"

"Yes."

I laugh but don't dispute it because yes, I like him. I like him a lot, so much that I'm terrified to admit to what degree I like this man. And from the way his eyes flit to me, and the smirk that touches his lips, I suspect he might know my dilemma, might know just how bad I have it.

"It's okay, though," he says, "because I like you, too."

His house is ice cold when we get there. I can see my breath whenever I exhale, a cloud of fog in the air around me. I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself, but the chill doesn't seem to bother Naz. He sets his coat and vest down on the living room couch as he watches me.

"You know where the bathroom is," he says. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. I'll warm the place up while you do that."

I hesitate. "Am I supposed to put the dress back on?"