It hadn't even been a day and a half since he'd kissed her. Jess had fled the loft early the morning after, only coming by once to pick up some clothes. He didn't believe for one second that it was a coincidence he was working at the time.

When he couldn't stand not knowing if she was okay, he casually asked Schmidt why Jess hadn't been around. He said that she and Cece had stopped by to pick up some things. Cece told him that Jess and Sam had broken up. When Nick pressed for more detail, Schmidt told him he didn't know who had done the breaking, but Jess would be staying with Cece until she no longer hated men.

Shit. He'd screwed up, big time. He still didn't even totally understand why he kissed her. He couldn't blame the alcohol, he was way past sober by that point. He couldn't blame the game; it was over the second he walked out on that ledge. And he couldn't blame it on sleepwalking, because he knew he'd never fallen asleep.

If he was being honest, he'd wanted her to break up with Sam for him. He'd wanted her to throw her arms around him again and tell him that it had always been him. Then they'd ride off into a glorious sunset together.

But this was reality and those kinds of things didn't happen to Nick Miller.

After talking to Schmidt he was going out of his mind, killing himself to come up with a way to fix what he had broken. Maybe he could get her to see that he was just regular old Nick Miller, not romance novel material like Sam – who, let's be honest, totally was. Maybe she would snap out of it and realize Sam was who she was meant to be with. So he sent her a text. "hey roomie, when you comin' back? i can't handle S & W's current debate bout chandeliers by myself."

Ten minutes later, another text. "seriously, i m now pro chandeliers, but anti wheelbarrows. WTF/SOS!?"

After the eighth pathetic cry-for-attention text, he felt defeated and simply sent her, "I'm sorry, Jess. I screwed up. Can we talk?"

It had been an hour since his last message and she still hadn't replied. Winston was at work and Schmidt was out, doing god knows what. The loft was always quiet when no one was around, but tonight it felt empty. He tried watching TV, playing solitaire, fixing the draft from the front window; nothing was distracting enough to keep him from thinking about her. He even considered drawing her face on a melon so he could practice "the talk".

At that ridiculous thought, he got up and went to his room. Dropping onto his bed, he grabbed a tennis ball and started bouncing it off the wall. On the third throw, the ball hit a nail and ricocheted into his computer, knocking it to the floor. "Damn it!"

He picked up the computer, checking for damage; thankfully it was still in one piece. His eyes fell upon his latest unfinished work about a certain zombie detective…

Two beers and forty five minutes later, he pressed print. He folded the paper, stuffed it in an envelope and wrote "Jessica Night" on the front. Before he could change his mind, he walked into her room, placed it on the bed and ran back out. Locking himself is his room for the night, he was thankful for the early shift tomorrow. If he could just keep himself away from her room until then, he wouldn't chicken out.