Page 95 of Fake As Puck
He chuckles. “Bit of both.”
I nod like that’s a normal sentence. “Good for you.”
He takes a sip of water. Doesn’t break eye contact. “You shower?”
“Yep.”
“Was it a good shower?”
He nods. “Refreshing. Very soapy. All-around success.”
He chuckles. It’s low and easy and does something dumb to my ribcage.
This is ridiculous.
I move toward the couch, mostly so I stop staring at his abs. “We should watch something?”
“Sure.”
He follows me into the living room, still shirtless, and that’s when I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. The couch? The couch is a trap. There’s only so much space, and his existence takes up way too much of it.
I sit on one end. He sits on the other.
I scroll through Netflix. Say something dumb about too many choices. He agrees. I put on something mindless, another action movie neither of us will pay attention to.
And we sit.
In silence.
Five minutes in, I feel his gaze, so I glance over.
His arm’s on the back of the couch. His body’s angled slightly toward me. He’s not trying to hide it.
I shift. “What?”
“You always wear your hair like that after a shower?”
I touch my wet bun. “It’s not exactly for fashion.”
“I like it.”
I blink.
He smiles. “I do.”
I laugh, even though it comes out kind of breathless.
The silence after is louder somehow.
He moves first slowly. He slides closer until our knees brush, and he uses his fingertips brushing my jaw, then tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear like he has a right to be that gentle.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says quietly.
I swallow.
“You said slow.”
I nod. “I did.”
