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What a showoff. Mister carpenter man with his perfect carpentry skills and his perfect hair and his stupid, perfect ass.

Gay ass, I might add.

Gay.

I snort, proceeding shuffling forward on my hands and knees.

Who does he think he is, anyway?

Propositioning me on his first day of gayness. I’m a seasoned gay. He’s old and decrepit and probably wears orthopedic inserts in his work boots and needs antacids before bed. I’m totally not interested in showing an old dude how the gay works. I’m not.

My elbows turn to gloop at the sudden vibration in my pocket, and I stumble over on my hands and knees. I make it to the door by some miracle and turn to lean my back against it. I squint at the bright screen of my phone when I pull it out, failing to put in the right passcode three times before it opens. Still on the same text thread.

Does Not Exist: asking if you’re awake means I wanna fuck?

Does Not Exist: please tell me you wouldn’t be that easy, baby.

I scoff, bending my knees and glowering at the screen.

don’t sex shame me. Sometimes one needs the cloak of darkness to agree to getting railed by questionable men.

Does Not Exist: And all they need to do is ask if you’re awake?

It was your geriatric generation that made the hookup lingo. Not mine. Don’t you know how anything works?

Does Not Exist: Do you know how anything works? Say like, security cameras for instance?

Before I can thoroughly react to being caught, a second text comes through.

Does Not Exist: Cute pajamas by the way

The solid wood behind my back is whisked away with a swoosh, and I’m tumbling backward into the house. My messy bun catches the fall, but nothing protects my eyes from the visionary nightmare happening above me.

Dillon is upside down from this vantage, eyebrow arched. He’s looking down at me like it isn’t entirely his fault that I’m in this position right now. Here, lying in his doorway.

“What?” I snap, flopping over with all the grace of a wet seal.

“Please tell me you did not walk here like that.”

I brush off my knees and wipe my hands off on my shorts when I finally get to my feet. His feet are bare.

I will never forgive him for giving me this weird foot fetish. Never.

“Emerson,” he says, and I finally look up at him.

“What?”

“Answer me. Did you walk here?”

I throw my hands up. “You literally said don’t tell you if I walked here. Now you want me to tell you? Make up your mind.”

“Brat.” I’d give up a nipple to get him to say more things. All the things. Bare feet and a raspy, rumbly sleep voice is absolutely a diabolical cocktail that’s going straight to my dick.

I cannot cope.

I rip the door from his grasp and close it. Locking us both inside.

“Why are you panting? Did you run over here?”