But then the front door opens.
Mads walks in, looking annoyingly refreshed. His hair is wet, curling a little at the ends, clinging to his forehead. His Northgate crop top—because apparently he’s single-handedly bringing back 2010s slutty jock fashion—is damp from locker room steam and riding up enough to expose all eighteen of his abs. The waistband of his shorts is slung low, and the thigh tattoo on his left leg is peeking out, half-hidden beneath the hem in a way that makes me want to… okay, no.No.
My stomach is unsettled. My eyes are literally watering. But instead of spinning any more theories about what mysterious illness I may have, all I can think isGod, he’s pretty.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees me, chest still rising as he catches his breath from the jog home. His mouth parts, brow creasing, and I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat thudding like it’s trying to fight its way out of my chest. Or if he knows I’ve just spent the last minute alternating between trying not to pass out and mentally composing a thesis on his thighs.
I sit up straighter on the couch, swallowing back the nausea and trying to focus onanythingthat isn’t his biceps. Or his jaw. Or the way he smells, which, unfairly, is usually not disgusting.
He looks at me, puzzled. Concerned. I think. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I wave a hand at my notebook. “Studying.”
He frowns. “You look pale.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean—” He drops his bag. Walks closer. Eyes scanning me with a frown. “Seriously. You look off.”
“I said I’m fine.”
But the second I try to stand up and brush him off, the room tilts.
My stomach lurches. My head feels packed with cotton.
Mads steps around the couch and wraps his big hand around my arm. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?”
“I told you—” I start, but I can’t finish. My words slur a little. Just enough to make me pause.
“You feel sick?”
I nod. “Headache. Maybe low blood sugar.”
He glances toward the kitchen. “Do you smell that?”
I sniff. Nothing.
Then again, I lit one of those eucalyptus wax melts before I settled in, and the whole place still smells like menthol. If there’s something else, it’s probably getting steamrolled by my attempt at stress relief.
“I think we need to get out,” he says, urgent.
“What?”
“Come on.” He’s already tugging me up. “We need to go. Now.”
“Wait, Mads?—”
“We’ll argue later. Right now you’re not okay, and I’m not waiting around for you to get worse and me to start feeling it too.”
He pulls my arm around his shoulders. I’m too dizzy to argue. My knees are too wobbly. He catches me, one arm locked around my waist, the other reaching for the front door.
“Is this—” I start to ask.
“Smells like gas,” he mutters. “Might be the cooker. Fuck knows. Come on.”
The blast of cold air outside hits like a slap to the face, but it helps. I blink hard as we step onto the porch, leaning heavily into him.
He doesn’t let go.
