Jax tossed a throw pillow across the room. “If you try to choreograph anything, I’m throwing you out the window.”
Stiles stood up and cracked his knuckles. “If no one’s gonna eulogize the unicorn properly, Iwill.”
A chorus of groans met him. He held up a hand. “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to celebrate the short but majestic life of Josh—friend, flotation device, and fierce defender of sparkle culture?—”
Tex murmured, “I give it five minutes before someone tries to resurrect the thing with duct tape and a hairdryer.”
Pharo snorted. “Three. Tops.”
Tex smiled victoriously. “That tutu and sash aresomine.”
Right on cue, McCormick gasped and bolted for the kitchen like he'd just solved cold fusion. “Glue gun!” echoed down the hall.
Brandt collapsed onto the couch, hands over his face. “This is how it starts. We’re going to end up on a watchlist.”
“Only if he starts livestreaming it,” Nash said.
“Whenhe starts livestreaming it,” corrected West.
Fly By My Tower
West
Istood in front of the dresser mirror as my fingers worked the buttons of my shirt. The collar wasn’t cooperating. One side kept flipping up like an unruly cowlick. I flattened it with the precision of a man who had, at one point in his life, taught twenty recruits how to fold a uniform properly without crying.
Behind me, Brandt was sprawled across the bed like a cat. “You know,” he said lazily, “you really don’t have to get dressedrightnow.”
“I do,” I said. “Because if I don’t, I’m going to end up in a situation where we’re late, I’m half-naked, and you’re trying to convince me it’s ‘a vibe.’”
He rolled onto his stomach and reached into the drawer beside him. A moment later, something smacked against my hip.
Aviator sunglasses. I stared at them. Then at him.
“Try them on,” he said, grinning like he knew exactly how suspicious that sounded.
“What are you planning?”
“Nothing sinister. Maybe something sexy. Go on.”
I sighed, picked them up, and slipped them on. The mirror instantly reflected a version of myself that looked like I’d eitherstolen a fighter jet or was about to lecture someone on why Tom Cruise peaked in the 80s.
Behind me, Brandt made a low, appreciative sound. And then he was up—fast—and suddenly all hands and lips, pressing himself against my back, kissing the side of my neck like he thought he could short-circuit my brain if he just hit the right spot.
To be fair, he almost did. That two-day scruff rubbed my skin just right.
“You look hot,” he murmured, nosing behind my ear. “Like… criminally.”
I didn’t hate it. My brain had shifted into neutral, and maybe I was ready to roll with whatever this was.
“Great Balls of Fire,” he whispered.
I froze.
He grinned, pulling back enough for me to catch the look in the mirror. “You know. Top Gun. Meg Ryan. The whole—hey Goose, you big stud—take me to bed or lose me forever?”
I turned to him slowly. “What the fuck, Reaper?”
“Keep the glasses on,” he said, pushing them back up my nose when I tried to take them off.
