“I need to check my schedule.”
Taylor huffed. We lay side by side, and I didn’t have to look down to know his hand was right by mine, our pinkie fingers almost touching. It was like I could feel the heat radiating off him.
“I should shower and then head to bed.”
Right. His bed.
He glanced at me, waiting.
“Okay,” I said.
He seemed to be waiting for something more.
“Go shower first. I’ll go after.”
After a second, he shoved himself out of bed. I thought about commenting that he didn’t need to undress to wash — life hack — but I was sort of distracted by the flex of his hamstrings.
I woke up with a start, naked and groggy, face pressed into a pillow, and realised I never made it to the bathroom last night. I’d listened to the rush of the shower through the walls, imagining Taylor standing under the water, hair wet and flat against his forehead, and then fallen asleep.
I pushed myself out of bed and winced, cupping my backside. Last night had been harder than the first time, deeper too, sinceI’d been on my hands and knees. After showering, scrubbing at my face to get rid of the sleep creases on my cheek, and wrapping a towel around my waist, I found Taylor in the living room. Predictably, he was shovelling brown muck into his mouth. He tensed when he met my eyes.
“What’s with the grim look?” I asked.
“What’s with your grim look?” he shot back like a six year old.
“I asked first.”
“My entire body aches. Do you know how much work it is, to keep going like that? I’m shit at cardio.”
A laugh escaped me. “Boo-hoo. Do you know how much my ass hurts?”
“I wasn’t too rough, was I?”
“It was worth it.” I flopped onto the couch behind him, my towel fluttering. I didn’t miss the way Taylor watched, his gaze crawling up my thigh like a physical touch.
“Are you eating mush again?” I asked.
He passed me the jar and spoon. “Wanna try?”
I took it against my better judgement. As I brought the spoon to my mouth, I paused. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“I had my tongue in your mouth last night.”
Touché. I popped the spoon in my mouth and actually, it wasn’t that bad. Mostly it just tasted like chocolate protein powder. The oats didn’t have the strange texture I expected.
I passed it back. Taylor watched me closely.
“It’s fine,” I hedged.
“I can make you some, if you want. It’s not much more work to make two.”
“That’s okay,” I said automatically. I didn’t want him to go to the trouble.
Taylor stabbed the oats with his spoon a few times, eyes on the food. “Have you checked your schedule yet?” he murmured.
“Huh?”
“Have you checked your schedule yet?” he repeated, almost shouting this time.
