No. He texted earlier, said he’d meet me after dinner.
Another knock. Harder this time.
Whoever’s out there needs shelter. I can’t ignore that.
I pull the door open—
And it’s him.
Soaked through, hair clinging to his face, and looking like a drowned rat.
I grab his wrist and tug him inside.
“Oh my god, I went to the kitchen to pick up my dinner and this tropical wave came out of nowhere,” he pants. “Thank god you were here.”
Then he turns to me.
I blink a couple of times. My brain is not having it.
His drenched white T-shirt is plastered to his body, defining every muscle. My eyes go over the ridges of his stomach, the lines carving his chest, the tight cables between his neck and shoulders.
He waves a hand in front of my face.
“Tom? Are you okay?”
Am I okay?
Mate, define okay, because I’m pretty sure my soul just left my body.
Here I am, starving, trapped by a storm, and now the universe has decided to throw this fine piece of art in front of me like some kind of test, right after I’d admitted to myself this afternoon that I may or may not be attracted to him.
I should say something smart. Something normal.
What comes out is a pathetic “…Yeah.”
The smile he gives me is genuine, but slightly confused and awkward.
Shit. I need to do something.
“I’ll get you a towel,” I say, retreating to the bathroom.
I grip the edges of the sink, slapping myself on the cheek.
Don’t be such a dumbass. Why are you acting like an idiot? Stay in control. That’s what you do.
I take a deep breath, lift my head, and walk back out. I toss him a towel before heading to my closet, grabbing one of my oversized band shirts. The one with the album cover, not the one with my face on it.
It sure would be fun to provoke a reaction, but I want to score points tonight.
“Thanks, would you mind taking this?” he asks, handing me the takeaway bag.
I step back as he kicks off his soaked espadrilles by the door. Then he heads straight for the bathroom—without closing the door.
I lean against the kitchen table, voyeuring, using the mirror’s reflection.
He dries his chest-length hair from the tips up to the roots, fingers threading through the damp strands. It’s obvious he cares for his hair deeply, and I’d probably get my hand chopped off if I ever tried to touch it.
Then again, I was the kid who got chased with an axe for stealing an apple at the farmer’s market, so I’m well acquainted with the risks of touching a forbidden fruit.
