Page 55 of Dear Roomie
I pull the door shut behind me as I slip into his room. My focus roams around the space that has mostly remained a mystery to me, and my face falls into a frown.
His room is practically barren. Almost nothing has changed since the first time I stepped foot in here; the boxes have been unpacked since then, leaving the floor clear of clutter, but it doesn’t feel like anything actually came out of them. There is nothing here that gives me the impression that this is Morgan’s space, no personal touches that make this anything more than a place for him to sleep.
The shower turns on in the next room, and I roll my eyes. Morgan is stalling. He can take as long as he wants, but he isn’t getting out of this conversation; I don’t care if I have to camp out in here all day.
Why didn’t he tell me it was his birthday? And why does it seem like such a bad thing? If I had known, I could have made today better for him.
Fuck it, the day isn’t over yet. I still can.
It doesn’t take long for the seed of an idea to take root and grow in my head. It’s the perfect mix of cheese and camp that I know he will love. Excitement pumps through my veins as I pull out my phone and purchase tickets for later tonight. It’s not like he gets a choice in the matter; he is coming with me whether he wants to or not, and he is going to have a good birthday, goddamnit.
Satisfied with my plans, I settle in to wait for him. There isn’t anywhere for me to sit, though. The air mattress on the floor is the only real furniture, and that is a loose interpretation of the word. I could sit there, but it feels wrong, like I would be crossing a line by invading one of his most vulnerable and intimate places, so I pace around the small room instead.
The minutes crawl by agonizingly slowly. We might miss our plans if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up.
Finally, the door opens.
“So—” I freeze when my gaze lands on the half-naked, soaking-wet Morgan standing in the doorway. The only thing keeping him decent is the old towel precariously wrapped around his hips.
My breath catches at the sight, and my heart speeds up, bouncing around erratically in my chest. He freezes too, his eyes growing wide as he notices me.
A drop of water falls from his hair onto his neck, and I watch it, entranced, as it glides along the hardened angles of his body. It catches on his collarbone, hanging for a moment before rolling onto his chest. I swallow and bite the inside of my lip as it continues to move lower, hugging every defined line of his abs before disappearing into the band of fabric around his hips.
My body feels like it’s stuffed full of fireworks, both hot and tingly all at the same time. I knew Morgan was hot, hell I’ve seen him naked, but he’s never affected me quite like this. My mouth waters at the sight of the carved V poking out from the top of the towel.
“Um, James…?” he questions, his face an alarming shade of pink. His voice snaps me out of my lust-addled haze, and I turn my back to him, my own blush rising.
“I…Uh…Sorry…” I trip over my words, trying to find a way to apologize for molesting him with my eyes.
“Just stay there, I’ll change real quick,” he says, followed by the rustling of him moving around the room. Despite the temptation, I keep my eyes locked on the blank wall.
“Okay, I’m decent.”
I turn back around but can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. What do you even say in a situation like this? Sorry I saw you naked again? Next time lose the towel?Get a grip, James. This is about helping your friend, not your hormones.
“So, yeah. Happy birthday,” I tell him, my words sounding as uncentered as I feel. “Do you want to tell me why that has you in such a foul mood?”
He lets out a heavy sigh and flops down onto the air mattress, burying his face deep into the pillow.
“Not particularly,” he mumbles into the fabric.
I sit on the edge of the bed beside him, so close I can feel the heat coming off him in waves.
“Hey…” My voice is thick with concern as I place a hand on his back and rub my thumb in small figure eights. The tension in his shoulders eases at my touch, but he still doesn’t answer me. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
“I hate my birthday,” he says with a sigh. “And Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and any other holiday that falls in between. My birthday is the start of the worst forty-three days of the year.”
“Why?” I’ve always loved the holidays; it’s hard for me to see how they could be the source of his distress.
“It’s complicated.”
I let out a small hum but don’t push him any further. He will open up if he wants to.
“Do you have plans tonight,” I ask, only as a courtesy. Even if he did have other plans tonight, they have been overruled.
“No,” he grunts out.
“Good, because you do now,” I tell him with exaggerated cheer. “You have forty-five minutes before we need to leave. I would say dress casually, but you’re you.”
