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The thin carpet feels cool underneath my bare feet as I stumble out of bed and into the living room. My hand absentmindedly reaches into my shorts to relieve some of the pressure of my morning arousal, and I briefly wonder if I’ll have enough time to sort it out before⁠—

“Well, good morning to you too.” Sunday’s gravelly morning voice rumbles straight through me, my cock giving a weak throb in my hand. I rip my hand back out of my shorts, accidentally flashing him when they slip.

“I forgot you were here,” I squeak, quickly tying the strings and clapping my hands over my crotch to hide the wet spot. Pastels really aren’t the best for hiding that sort of thing.

“You’re good. But can you tell me something?” he asks.

Much to my dismay, he’s topless. The negative space across his torso is like lightning forks, or the roots of a tree. The strips of unmarked skin across his chest give a sexy peekaboo effect over his nipples. Which doesn’t help my lilac-tent situation, even though I keep telling my brain we can’t go there.

But I can’t.

Stop.

Staring.

“Do you own anything that doesn’t smell offensive or taste like grass?” he asks, swirling the contents of his cup. I wonder if it was a conscious decision to choose the one that says resting witch face.

“Herbal tea is good for you,” I mutter, doing my best to ignore his rippling abs as he leans back and stretches. “Cleans you out.”

“Oh, geez. I’ve had enough cleaning out for one lifetime.” He gets up and stalks past me, dumping the contents of his mug in the sink. The bright, citrusy scent of lemongrass fills my nose, along with a little spice from the ginger. What a waste.

“Did you really shit yourself in the shower?” I ask, because maybe that mental image will squash this fluttery feeling in my stomach.

This is the problem with letting him back in. My brain gives an inch, but my body wants me to take an inch. Or eight.

“So many times, it’s not even funny. The shower has limestone walls, Bels. Limestone.”

Okay, yep, that’s working. Grim.

“That’s so gross,” I laugh, and to my surprise, it’s genuine. The kind that rattles my chest and makes endorphins flow through my system.

“Speaking of gross…you got a spare toothbrush?” He bares his teeth at me through a goofy smile, and one more brick goes tumbling from my walls.

After work, Sunday and I head to his apartment so I can investigate his sprite problem.

The walk is pleasant, winding through the town toward the canal. We pass weathered brick and wood facades, apothecary-style windows promising witchy things or baked goods or books that will help you cross worlds. In a literary sense, of course.

The farmers market is in full swing, a myriad of scents invading my nostrils as Sunday expertly weaves us through the throng.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this is the long way to his apartment. Normally he hates crowds, but he knows I’ve always loved markets. I’m a total slut for a market, actually.

Sunday lingers patiently with his hands in his pockets each time I get distracted, his soft smile tickling at my insides.

Eventually we leave the smell of spices and fresh bread behind for the briny aroma of the North River canal district, eventually reaching Sunday’s apartment. I didn’t pay much attention to it the last time I was here—when I fled in a haze of emotion—but now I can see how gorgeous it is.

The unit below is empty, but there’s no For Lease sign in the window.

When we make it into his apartment, the sweeping, open-concept space provokes a spike of jealousy. It’s impressive, the early evening light streaming through the factory-style windows and bathing everything in gold.

Something I didn’t clock last time snags my eye, sunlight glinting off it.

The box frame houses Sunday’s old electric guitar, the angular black faux-marble instrument nestled among mossy mounds. Various winged insects are peppered around it, little splashes of jewel tones. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

“Wow…” I breathe, craning my neck to look up at the art piece on the exposed brick wall, my feet dragging me closer.

“I think that’s the piece I’m most proud of. I could probably sell it for a decent price, but I can’t bring myself to,” he says, coming to stand by my side.

“It’s incredible, Sunday. Who knew you could create something so beautiful?”