-Vaughn Blackmore:
I keep staring at him, trying to figure out if he's joking.
Because he has to be joking.
There's no way this guy is serious.
Not about this.
Not about me staying here.
Not about the bed.
Not about any of it.
But Ryland just stands there across from me near the end of the bed, completely calm, like nothing about this situation is strange to him at all. Like dragging another guy into his private room and telling him he lives here now is somehow a normal Tuesday activity.
The worst part is that he genuinely looks relaxed.
Not awkward.
Not embarrassed.
Relaxed.
The warm light from the lamps throws soft shadows across the room, catching against the sharp lines of his shoulders and collarbones, against the faint water still dripping from the ends of his buzzed hair down the side of his neck. The room smells clean now—soap, steam, that faint cold scent of expensive detergent from the black hoodie I'm wearing that probably belongs to him too.
