Thursday Morning - 6:35 AM
Tristan woke up slowly, his body registering warmth and weight before his brain fully engaged.
Someone was draped across him.
Arm over his chest. Leg tangled with his. Face pressed against his shoulder.
Mireille.
The memories from last night filtered back—drunk Mireille, stolen clothes, his bed.
He needed to get up. Get ready for work.
Extract himself from this situation before it became even more awkward.
Moving very carefully, Tristan tried to shift without disturbing her.
Inch by inch, he started to slide toward the edge of the bed.
Mireille stirred.
Her arm tightened around him.
Tristan froze.
"Mmm..." Mireille mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "Don't go..."
She's still asleep, Tristan realized. Just stay still and she'll—
"This must be a dream," Mireille murmured, her hand sliding across his chest.
Tristan's breath caught.
"You're so warm..." Her fingers traced idle patterns on his shirt. "And solid. Very solid. Do you work out? You must work out..."
Oh God, she's sleep-talking.
"I always wondered..." Mireille's voice was soft, dreamy. "What you'd feel like. If you'd be cold like you act or warm like this..."
Tristan lay absolutely rigid, not daring to move.
"Our babies would be so beautiful," she continued, completely unaware. "They'd have your eyes. Your cheekbones. Maybe my smile? I hope they get my smile..."
Our WHAT—
"Little Tristan and little... what would we name the girl?" Mireille shifted, her face tilting up toward his. "Something pretty. Something that means 'miracle' because it would be a miracle if you ever noticed me..."
Her eyes were still closed. Still asleep.
Still talking.
"But you're here now. In my dream. And in dreams, I can do this..."
She leaned up.
And kissed him.
Soft. Brief. Her lips barely brushing his.
Tristan's entire body went taut.
Then his alarm blared.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
Mireille's eyes shot open.
For one frozen second, they stared at each other.
Her lips still inches from his.
His expression carefully, perfectly blank.
Then awareness crashed over her face like a wave.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
Tristan's face remained impassive. Cold. Revealing nothing.
"Oh my GOD." Mireille jerked backward. "I didn't— That wasn't— I was ASLEEP—"
"Good morning," Tristan said, his voice even.
"This isn't happening. This is NOT happening—" She scrambled to get out of the bed, panic making her clumsy.
Her foot caught in the blanket.
She pitched forward.
Straight toward Tristan.
He caught her reflexively, his hands on her shoulders.
Which brought her face directly to his.
Again.
Their lips met.
Again.
This time for a half-second longer before Mireille pushed herself back with a mortified squeak.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean— The blanket— I tripped—"
Tristan looked at her, his expression still carefully neutral.
Then said, completely deadpan: "At this point, I believe you're taking advantage of me."
Mireille's face drained of color. "What? NO! I would never— I didn't— It was an ACCIDENT—"
"Mireille—"
"Both times! Both were accidents! I swear I'm not some kind of— of—" She was spiraling, words tumbling out. "I'm not trying to— I would never take advantage—"
"I was joking."
She stopped mid-sentence. "What?"
"That was a joke."
"That was— You were—" Mireille stared at him. "You DON'T JOKE!"
"Apparently I do."
"This is— I need to leave. RIGHT NOW." She finally freed herself from the blanket and stumbled toward the door. "I'm so sorry. Forget this happened. All of it. The kissing— both times— the cuddling— everything—"
"Mireille—"
"I'll return your clothes! Goodbye!"
She fled.
The front door slammed.
Silence.
Tristan sat in bed, alone, staring at the empty doorway.
Then his carefully controlled expression cracked.
A smile tugged at his lips.
Then a grin.
Then he actually laughed—a genuine, surprised sound.
He pumped his fist in the air like a kid who'd just won a prize.
She kissed me.
She talked about our BABIES.
She thinks I'm solid.
Then reality caught up with him.
"Get it together," he muttered, slapping his own cheek lightly. "She was drunk. She was asleep. It didn't mean anything."
He stood up, trying to compose himself.
Tried to stop smiling.
Failed.
The grin kept creeping back as he headed to the bathroom.
She said I was warm.
She wondered what I'd feel like.
She—
"STOP," he told his reflection firmly.
His reflection grinned back at him like an idiot.
Tristan turned on the shower, still trying to school his expression into something professional.
But the smile wouldn't leave.
Across the Hall - Apartment 119 - 7:02 AM
Mireille burst through her door and slammed it behind her.
Then stood there, breathing hard, still wearing Tristan's clothes.
"Okay," she said quietly, walking to her couch. "Okay. That happened."
She sat down.
A smile tugged at her lips.
"I kissed him." She tested the words, her grin growing. "I actually kissed Tristan Mercier."
She flopped backward, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression.
"Twice, technically. Well, the second one was an accident but—" Her smile was radiant now. "His lips are soft. Did you notice? Very soft. And he smells really good up close. Like cedar and something else I can't—"
She stopped herself, sitting up abruptly.
"Wait. Oh God." Her hands flew to her face. "I was sleep-talking. About BABIES. Our babies. He heard me talking about our CHILDREN."
She stood up, started pacing.
"He thinks I'm insane. Completely unhinged. Who does that?! 'Oh hello Tristan, yes I broke into your apartment, and by the way I've already named our future children in my sleep—'"
She paused mid-step.
"But he made a joke." Her expression shifted, cautiously hopeful. "He actually made a JOKE. 'I believe you're taking advantage of me.' That was... that was flirting, right? Or at least friendliness? He doesn't joke with people he hates—"
The panic returned. She resumed pacing faster.
"Or maybe he was being sarcastic. Maybe he was horrified and that was his polite way of saying 'please never touch me again—'"
She caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Stopped.
Touched her lips.
"He didn't push me away though," she said softly. "Either time. He could have. But he didn't."
A small smile returned.
"And when I tripped, he caught me. His hands were..." She trailed off, her face warming at the memory.
Then shook her head violently.
"No! Focus! This is a DISASTER. Yes, I finally got to kiss him—dream come true, thank you—but now he knows I'm the weird neighbor who fantasizes about having his babies!" She threw herself onto the couch.
"He's probably across the hall right now, planning his escape. Maybe he's looking up restraining orders—"
She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it.
"Was it too much? Be honest." She seemed to be addressing someone. "The sleep-talking was definitely too much. I should've just— I don't know— kept my unconscious thoughts to myself? Is that even possible?"
She sat up again, energized by a new thought.
"But I got to kiss him! That's what matters, right? Progress! Actual physical progress! His lips touched MY lips! TWICE!"
The elation lasted approximately five seconds.
"Oh God, what if he tells people? What if he tells Rhys? What if it gets back to everyone and—" Mireille's eyes widened in horror. "I'll never live this down. 'Remember when you broke into Tristan's apartment and confessed your love while unconscious?'"
She pulled the pillow over her face and screamed into it.
Then lowered it slowly.
"At least I got to kiss him," she whispered, touching her lips again. "That's something, right? That counts for something?"
She looked down at the shirt she was wearing.
His shirt.
That smelled like him.
A dreamy smile spread across her face again.
"Really soft lips though. Really, really soft... And warm. He's so warm—"
She shot to her feet.
"NO. Stop it. You're going to stay here. Hide. Not go to work. Avoid him completely until you can figure out how to be a normal human being around him again."
She pulled out her phone and texted her assistant.
Mireille: Not coming in today. Handle everything. Emergency.
Gabriella: Everything okay??
Mireille: No. Yes. Maybe. I don't want to talk about it.
She tossed the phone aside and flopped back onto the couch.
"One week," she told the ceiling. "I just have to avoid him for one week until the collaboration meeting. Then I'll be professional. Distant. Composed."
She touched her lips again.
Smiled despite herself.
"But his lips though..."
She grabbed the pillow and screamed into it again.
It was going to be a very long week.