Like, I know it's only a glass of water. It means nothing serious. Other than that he cares. About me. And he did something for me.
Why am I getting so worked up about this?
I down the glass of water as a distraction. I'm not hungover, only super thirsty, and I heave my heavy body out of bed for a refill. It’s already past noon, so I should get moving, anyway. As usual, I don’t smell so great, so I strip my shirt off and head into the hallway.
The shower was running when I woke up, so I'll grab water in the kitchen?—
I walk face-first into Callum.
“Shoot, sorry, man, I wasn’t…” I trail off as I take a step back, contending with the sight in front of me.
Paying attention. What I didn’t manage to say is what I’m doing now, because Callum is shirtless, too.
He’s shirtless and fuckingbreathtaking.
While it’s obvious to anyone who so much as looks in his general direction that he’s built like a tank, seeing his brawny frame without a shirt over top is something else.
Why is he allowed to be tallandstocky? And have chest hair when he's nineteen? Wait, no, I think he already turned twenty. I don't even know anymore.
Life is not fair. Life is not fair because it’s testing me. Constantly. With hot straight men, or rather, one singular, smoking hot straight man who fits my type for guysto a damn T.
Still, I haven’t failed a single test since ninth grade, and I won’t fail this one. In my mind, AP Calculus II is harder than not crushing on someone I literally can’t make a move on, so Iscrounge up some willpower and snap my eyes up to the space between Callum’s eyebrows.
His eyes are too distracting for me to stare into them for real.
He's just another one of my friends who happens to be hot. Nick is athletic, funny, and attractive, but wanting him to fuck me would be like wanting my nonexistent brother to fuck me. Gross.
And yeah, I was kinda into Sabrina for a day before I knew she was lesbian, and now there's nothing but friendship between us.
Callum is like a tall, hairy Sabrina with a quieter sense of humor.
He has to be.
“Sorry, I forgot a shirt,” he mumbles. His cheeks are pink, probably from the shower, and he isn’t meeting my gaze.
That’s for the best—that way he can’t catch me staring at his plush, parted lips.
I shrug. “Don't worry about it. You're good.”
You're good to never, ever wear a shirt in this house again. Burn them all.
Jesus, that's so sleazy. Poor Callum.
“No bruises or anything?” I ask jokingly. “I crashed into you pretty hard.”
“Nah,” he says. “All good. I thought you were asleep.”
“I was until a minute ago.” I hold up my empty water glass. “But I needed some water.”
Silence falls between us, and it drags out into uncomfortable, awkward territory, amplified by the fact that we’re both half-naked.
“So, about last night,” I start, but Callum interjects before I can finish my sentence.
“Yeah. I don’t want things to change between us because of what you told me.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Oh, that’s not what I was trying to get at.”
“It wasn’t?”
