Page 41 of Catching Flynn

Flynn deadpanned at him. “My plants died.”

For a second, Garrett glanced off toward the stairwell with the look of a man trying to remember the location of several stolen goods while still passing as charming. Then he looked back and smiled again, warmer this time, more focused.

Flynn’s annoyance held. Garrett’s charm wasn’t working. Bugging Flynn at six in the morning was a deal breaker.

“No more borrowing,” he said.

Garrett’s brows lifted. “Come on.”

“No.” The word came out firm and steady. Flynn tightened his grip on the door edge, ready to slam it shut.

“Seriously. I mean it. You can’t keep borrowing my stuff and then forgetting where it went. At this point, if I ever need to build a shelf, I’ll have to come do it at your place because all my tools are apparently living there now.”

Garrett tipped his head and gave Flynn a look that no longer work on him. “You’re being harsh.”

“I’m being awake against my will.” Flynn glanced over his shoulder toward the dark hallway and wanted to groan. Bed was ten steps away. “And I’m not being harsh. I’m setting a boundary like a person who recently found self-worth under a pile of receipts.”

Garrett smiled wider instead of backing off. “A sexy boundary.”

Flynn squinted at him. “That phrase isn’t cute.”

With a little exhale through his nose, Garrett let his gaze drift over Flynn, making him want to cover his body. His stare snagged on Flynn’s throat. Then one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Well,” Garrett said. “Looks like somebody had a busy night.”

Flynn went still. “The fuck?”

Heat climbed straight up his face. The love bite Zavier had given him felt suddenly huge. Branded. Neon. A roadside attraction for nosy neighbors.

He straightened. “That’s none of your business.”

Garrett lifted a shoulder. “Just noticing.”

“Go notice your apartment.” Flynn kept his voice even, though he was grinding his teeth.

A beat passed. Garrett’s expression shifted just enough to say he knew he’d pushed and did not care.

Then warmth moved at Flynn’s back.

He didn’t hear Zavier so much as felt him, a quiet heat entering the space behind him. Flynn glanced over his shoulder and nearly forgot every syllable he’d ever learned.

Zavier stood there barefoot and broad-shouldered in nothing but black boxers, hair tousled from sleep, jaw rough with morning shadow. The marks Flynn had put there sat along his throat and collarbone, dark and obvious in the weak kitchen light.

Lord, give me strength. Or water. Something.

Zavier rested one hand lightly at Flynn’s hip, the contact grounding and distracting at the same time. His body was still warm from bed. Flynn could feel it through every inch of space he wasn’t touching.

“What’s the problem?” Zavier asked.

The question came out a little too calm. Flynn was suddenly aware of the hallway, of Garrett in front of him, of Zavier behind him, of himself trapped in the middle wearing sleep shorts and a thin T-shirt and an expression that probably screamed I used to make poor choices based on cheekbones.

Garrett looked at Zavier.

For one heartbeat, his expression changed. His eyes narrowed just a little, quick enough that someone less nosy might have missed it.

Flynn did not miss it.

Then Garrett smiled again, easy and bright as ever, making Flynn’s skin prickled.