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I involuntarily let out a stifled cough. “Oh.”
“But Mr. Garrison said shirts are required.”
“Yeah,” I answer but can’t peel my eyes away from his chest. “Yeah, definitely required.”
“Right.” He lets out a light laugh. “I figured as much, which is why I brought the tank top.”
“Okay,” I reply, and he’s still holding the shirt up, scratching his stomach.
I reach over, pushing his hand down with the shirt because if I keep staring at his stomach, I might just tear his whole shirt off. But I quickly realize that’s a mistake, because now my fingers tingle, my entire body feeling like I’m suffocating under my pajama wardrobe.
“I, uh …” I shake my head, forcing myself to look at his eyes and nothing else. “I guess you took the whole pajama day thing literal.”
He smirks. “Yes and no. I couldn’t exactly wear my actual pajamas. I mean, I could, but I probably would’ve been sent home.”
“Sent home?” The words are so soft, I barely hear them myself.
Matt arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, I usually just wear my boxer briefs.”
I don’t say anything. I literally can’t. I bite my lip so hard I think I might draw blood, as I will every ounce of energy to keep staring at his eyes and not glance down at his shorts and start imagining him in tight, little boxers.
As my eyes stay on his face, I notice he’s shaven. I have a way to get out of the pajama discussion, because anymore talking about Matt in underwear is certainly going to fry my brain, so I jump at it.
“You shaved.” I nod, not daring to touch him.
“Yeah.” He rubs his chin. He takes a step and nods to me. “We better get to class, or we’ll be late.”
“Yeah, right.” I turn and follow him, careful to keep a safe distance between us. Mostly to just keep myself in check.
