“You’re not keeping me up.”
“No?”
I shake my head, not feeling the urge to admit that without him I’d be pacing the floorboards he’s sitting on, but unwilling to lie. “I, uh, have PTSD, so I do weirdo stuff at night when I should be sleeping.”
No surprise hits Joss’s face. Either he already knew, or I’m transparent enough that I might as well have it inked on my forehead.
He nods. Slowly. Considering me with his open gaze before he leans close enough that I can smell herbs and woodsmoke seeping from his pale skin. “For what it’s worth, there’s nothing too weird about stumbling to the fridge and not knowing what the ever-loving fuck to do once you get there.”
“You knew what to do.”
“I have two skills, mate. One of them is what I put on your plate.”
The air leaves the room. Or maybe it’s just me. Joss doesn’t seem to notice. He eases back onto the floor and picks up my iPad. It’s unlocked, thank god. I don’t think I could find the words to tell him the passcode if he asked me right now.
I eat the sandwich.
Drink the water.
Then I just stare, bemused by the energy of the man sitting prone on the hardwood floor, swiping at a fuckin’ iPad. He’s not moving much, and yet he’s never still. I watch his brows dance up and down and his lips twitch. His fingers tap and repeatedly drop the pencil I gave him this afternoon.
He doesn’t seem to notice that either, but I do. I see it. Drink it in. For reasons I can’t fathom, I can’t look away.
I push my plate aside and rest my head on my bent arm. Joss doesn’t glance up, but somehow I feel his gaze on me all the same.
As if he sees me.
You fuckin’ idiot. Take your meds and go to bed.
But I don’t. I stay right where I am, wondering how his voice can be so familiar.
How this ass-backwards and disjointed introduction feels like something we’ve done a thousand times before.
5
JOSS
Morning comes and it’s my turn to walk into the living room and find my roommate already there. Difference is, I was wide awake when Kai tripped past me last night, but he’s dead asleep right now, exactly where I left him, knocked out with his head on the arm of the old leather couch.
I try not to stare as I creep on by, but it’s hard, because he’s the kind of man who deserves a second glance. A third. A fourth. And he’s a lot easier to look at when he’s asleep. The lines of stress in his handsome face are gone, and I’m not lost in the heartache of his honey-brown eyes.
Nah, I’m just lost in his chiseled cheekbones and ridiculously sexy legs, and I can stare all I want cos he ain’t gonna see.
Stop.
I try, I really do. But I’m only human, and he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life. And the fact that he has no fucking clue?
Yeah. Bottle that shit, cos it’s rare.
I make it to the kitchen without causing a scene loud enough to wake him up. I don’t contemplate the fact that I slept with my new bedroom door wide open in case he woke up and needed someone.
As if he’d need you. You’re strangers. A sandwich and a thirty-minute chat doesn’t build that kind of trust.
But I want it to.
Why?
No idea. All I know is the notion of this man waking alone and scared is one I can’t contemplate.
