Red, watery sunlight filtered in through the curtains drawn across the window. Hank stirred. He peeled his eyes open and winced. The back of his skull pounded, and his thoughts were sluggish. All he could immediately assess of his situation upon waking was the hangover, and the dry, sour taste of old beer in his mouth.

He glanced down and saw that, beneath an unfamiliar set of soft white sheets, he was naked. The revelation shouldn't have come as a surprise. He was a man who generally slept in the nude, even back home in Alaska. These past months, though, he had taken to sleeping in boxers and a T-shirt out of consideration for the men who shared his cramped quarters. He knew without needing to hear them gripe that seeing their chief shoot out of bed to answer a late-night emergency call naked wasn't exactly good for morale.

The pink curtains softened the harsh morning light of the Cedar Springs sun. He had gotten so used to looking out and seeing the angry red pendulum in the sky that he could scarcely remember what a healthy yellow sun was supposed to look like anymore.

Pink curtains . . . soft sheets . . .

Hank sat up and clutched his head. When the pounding receded to a bearable degree, he turned—and found a naked Lana Sweet sleeping beside him.

Looking at her . . . It was as if a fist clenched around his heart as he looked at her. Her auburn hair swept across her face, her eyelashes lay dark against her flushed cheeks. Her lips were parted in sleep, and she breathed evenly, quietly, beside the dip of his waist. A pale hand rested on his thigh as if, even in sleep, she didn't trust him to remain without a physical link to assure her of his presence.

Hank swallowed. He took Lana's hand, but rather than remove it so he could slide out of bed undetected, he raised it to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. He didn't know where the impulse came from.

He regretted it the next instant when he looked down and saw that Lana's eyes had opened. She stared at him as if he had just struck her.

"Morning." The greeting was rough in his throat. He dropped her hand as she sat up beside him. The bedsheet slipped down past her waist, exposing her bare breasts. Hank glanced away quickly, as if privacy was something that could—and ought to—still be maintained between them.

"Good morning." Her voice was husky, sleep-roughened. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lana pull the sheet back up to cover herself. "What time is it?"

"Past nine."

The air between them was tense, but not the same way it had been last night. This tension didn't beg to be defused by any means necessary. This was awkward. It must have been the beer that muddied his thinking and fuzzed the edges of things.

It must have been the beer that fooled him into thinking they could pick up exactly where he’d left things all those years ago.

Nothing was the same between them. They hadn't resolved anything. They had stepped over everything. Their explosive physical connection wasn't a substitute for a real conversation—or a real explanation.

Hank turned and let himself take in the sight of Lana covering herself. Hadn't he spent years of his life preparing for this moment? Summoning the words, again and again, that would make things right for her?

More than awkwardness weighed the air. The bedroom felt suddenly heavy with expectation. Lana gazed at him, but she asked for nothing. Hank knew she wouldn't press him.

And he was a coward for taking the easy out she was opening to him.

"Well, guess I should head into town. Got things to attend to down at the station."

"Of course." Lana nodded, maybe too exuberantly, because she winced the next instant and touched her forehead.

He felt instant sympathy for her. His own hangover was a beast he didn't hold a hope of vanquishing. It had been a long time since he’d gone into work like this—all he had to do was make it through the day.

But all she said was, "I've got to get going, too. I've already overslept longer than I like to."

They slid out of opposite sides of the bed and hunted the room for their clothes. A few wordless exchanges of clothing items later, and they were both dressed to get on with their days. Hank wondered if anyone down at the station would notice he was wearing the same clothes he had worn as he left the party. His wardrobe didn't vary much from day-to-day.

They stood awkwardly together at the center of the room. Lana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stared intently at some spot of interest in the carpet that Hank couldn't discern. He raised his arms for a hug and then aborted the move. The gears in his head ground together painfully as he tried to churn out the right thing to do in this situation.

Thankfully, Lana spared him by acting first. She rose up on her tiptoes and placed her hands on his shoulders. She moved to kiss him on the cheek—but Hank's body misread the cues before his brain could catch up with her intent.

Her hands, her nearing lips, triggered a response in him, and he turned into her. Their lips met.

An electric shock coursed through him, and he knew he wasn't the only conduit. Lana jerked back and blinked rapidly.

"Sorry." He breathed the apology, suspecting that he didn't sound sorry at all.

"No, it's . . ." She stared at him a moment longer, then averted her eyes. He wanted to cup her chin and guide her back to him, but he let her go. He knew he had forfeited the right to ask anything of her, years ago. "It's good to see you, Hank. Be safe out there."

"Yeah. You, too."

He left Lana's little house and walked back into town. As if the excruciating pain in his head wasn't punishment enough, he couldn't stop from mentally kicking himself, again and again and again, for last night's royal slipup.

Lana Sweet, naked and writhing beneath him . . . Lana Sweet's delectable lips fitted against his own as easily and addictively as they always had . . .

Hank couldn't shake the impression that he had just made a terrible fucking mistake.