I lower the magazine slightly and listen to him pee, half-singing the entire time, and then a moment later, the sink turns on.Thank fuck he’s washing his hands, I think as the door opens and Caleb appears in the bedroom.
I peer up at him, seeing him all sweaty, his hair a mess.
He looks like he just rolled out of a long, dirty fuck.
I swallow, the paper crumpling under my fingers.
“You into four-wheeling, too?” he asks as he sits down on his bed, the movement making some of the clothes I folded flop to the side.
I glance at the magazine I’m holding and feel my cheeks heat.
“No, I was just interested in what this was.”
Lies, I tell myself. I had no idea what I was holding until he mentioned it. I was too busy ogling my new roommate, like a sculpture in a museum, trying to make sense of all the angles and shapes before me.
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome to any of my shit. What’s mine is yours.”
He sniffs his armpit and then chuckles. “Yeah. That’s bad. Gonna go shower now.”
He stands up and grabs a pair of boxers from his drawer before moving toward the bathroom. I let out a long exhale when I hear the door shut.
Only boxers.
With a body like that.
I let out a soft groan and lay the magazine right over my face. It’s going to be a long, uncomfortable night.
I’m so fucked.
“Why do you look so terrible?” asks my friend and occasional fuck buddy. He’s found me in the library, tucked away in the back corner. I’m in hiding. Like a nun, lest I sin.
I peer up at him through my eyelashes and sigh.
“Thanks. That’s reassuring.” He grins down at me, and I add, “Just roommate trouble.”
“Oh, do tell,” Magnus says, lowering himself next to me. It’s a wonder he can even sit in those skinny jeans. I swear I hear them squeaking as he moves. “Is he terrible? Gods, I totally get that, if so.”
He reaches out and gently touches my leg.
I stare at his hand on me, but I don’t move it away. I should be okay with him touching me. I mean, I’ve been inside him—several times—but still. It feels weird for some reason.
Everything seems a little cluttered at the moment. Unkempt and unorganized.
It’s unsettling. I don’t like it.
“He’s alright, just new. And you know I don’t do well with new.”
“You sure don’t.” His fingers curl against my leg, and then he moves his hand away. I can breathe a little easier now. “What’s he like?”
“Big” is all I can say. He seems to suck the air from each room he’s in. At night, I twist and turn, trying to regulate my breathing, but end up panting like a runner in a race. And I don’t run. Ever.
I’m tired and irritable. My studies are suffering from it.
They shouldn’t be with how much time I spend in the library these days. And when Iamhome, my Kindle is my protection—a good reason not to look at him.
But fuck, sometimes all I do is look at him. Think about him.
I really cannot be thinking about him.
