Page 128 of Your Place or Mine

I hadn’t slept much. Didn’t want to. She’d curled up against me in that tiny studio apartment like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hand had rested on my chest for hours, right over my heart like she was trying to memorize its rhythm.

And for once, I hadn’t hated the silence that followed.

Now I was back in the Rusty Stag with my feet on solid ground and my head somewhere in the clouds, and I was doing everything I could to pretend I wasn’t a little bit different from the way I’d been yesterday or the day before that.

The front door opened with its usual creak and thud, and I didn’t even look up.

“Closed ‘til noon,” I said.

“I brought you a breakfast burrito and the best iced coffee our caffeine goddess, Riley, had to offer,” Drew’s voice sang out, followed by the unmistakable thud of his boots across the floor. “So you’re going to shut up and accept this blessing.”

I looked up then.

He grinned as he tossed a paper bag onto the bar and plopped the iced drink down beside it. “I also brought judgment, sarcasm, and possibly an emotional intervention, depending on your mood.”

I rolled my eyes but reached for the burrito. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Nope,” he said, making himself at home on a barstool. “It’s a gift.”

He took one long sip of his own drink, eyes scanning me like I was some kind of experiment he was trying to dissect.

Then he narrowed them. “You’re… different.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” His grin turned positively feral. “You’re standing straighter. Your frown is at least 30% less murder-y. And your hair looks like someone ran their hands through it multiple times. Amazing. I took a few days off, and you’re a new man.”

I pointed at him with the burrito. “You need hobbies.”

“Ihavehobbies. Watching you try and fail to hide your feelings is my new favorite one.”

I grumbled under my breath and turned away to wipe down the bar again. Definitely clean.

But Drew wasn’t done.

He slid off the stool like a bloodhound catching a new scent. Wandered toward the hallway.

“Don’t go back there,” I warned.

“Why?” he called, voice echoing down the short hallway.

“Because I said so.”

“Oh-ho,” he said, voice rising with interest. “Is that… a sock shoved under the shelf?”

I closed my eyes.

“Callum,” he said, voice choked with laughter, “I swear to God, is this… is this a pinkfloral sock?”

I marched back there, grabbing it off the floor before he could get closer.

He pointed at it like it was proof of a miracle. “That sock belongs to someone who definitely doesn’t drink beer out of a boot and enter a belching contest.”

I scowled. “Shut up.”

“That’s Lydia’s, isn’t it?”

“It’s no one’s. Maybe it’s mine.”

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