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I worked until ten that night.

I felt a weight settle on my shoulders. Ashton's blazer, draped around me.

"Rowan, I've been texting you. Why aren't you answering?"

I didn't turn around. I just tapped my phone screen and read the unread message:

What flavor of lattes do girls usually like?

Three years ago, I'd asked him, half-jokingly, for the first pumpkin-spice latte of the fall. He'd looked me up and down with open disgust.

"Rowan, you're almost thirty. Don't come at me with this cutesy trend garbage."

And now here he was, sliding a latte across my desk.

Noticing that I hadn't touched it, still typing, he narrowed his eyes.

"I thought you used to make a whole thing out of wanting this."

I kept my tone flat. "It's late. Caffeine will keep me up."

A long pause.

"I'm going to the restroom," he said, cold. "Then we're going home."

Thirty seconds after he left, his phone—left on my desk—lit up.

It was Juliet.

Ashton, you big dork~~ Nobody orders a whole case of lattes at once!!! You're trying to turn me into a little butterball, aren't you? I'm literally trembling rn ~