“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant it would've been nice to know you were here instead of coming home to an empty house and wondering if you'd disappeared again.” He grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and wiped sweat off his face and neck. I watched the movement, mesmerized by the flex of his forearms, the way the towel dragged across skin I had no business noticing.
I was so fucked.
“I went out,” I said, forcing my brain to focus on words instead of the line of his collarbone. “Had drinks with a friend. Went for a walk. Came back. Didn't realize I needed to file a goddamn itinerary.”
“You don't. But a text would've been courteous.”
“Courteous.” I laughed. “Since when do we do courteous?”
“Since you're staying in my house and I'd like to know you're not dead in a ditch somewhere.” He tossed the towel aside andleaned against the counter. The position made his abs tighten, made every muscle in his torso stand out in sharp definition.
I looked away. Stared at my beer bottle like it held the secrets of the universe.
“Your house. Right. Good to know where I stand.”
Declan set his bag down harder than necessary. “That's not what I said.”
“Sounded like it to me.”
“Troy—”
“What?” I looked up at him and let irritation fuel my words because anger was safer than whatever the fuck else I was feeling. “You want me to act like I live here? Want me to check in like a teenager with a curfew? Want me to pretend that we're just one big happy family?”
“I want you to act like an adult who gives a shit.”
“Nobody asked you to worry.”
“Yeah, well. I do it anyway.” He pushed off the counter and took a step closer. “Comes with the territory of raising you.”
“You didn't raise me,” I said. “You babysat me until I was old enough to leave.”
Declan went very still. The air in the kitchen went heavy with the weight of that statement landing exactly how I'd meant it to.
“Right,” he said finally, and his voice had gone quiet in a way that felt worse than anger. “My mistake.”
We stared at each other across the kitchen. Then his expression changed. Softened. His eyes tracked over my face, lingering on details I couldn't see but could feel him cataloging.
“You've been crying,” he said quietly.
“No I haven't.”
“Troy.”
“I said I haven't.”
He didn't argue. Just grabbed two beers from the fridge and twisted the caps off with hands that were scarred acrossthe knuckles in ways I didn't remember. He walked past me, close enough that I caught the scent of sweat and clean skin underneath, male and uniquely him.
My cock gave another interested pulse. I told it to shut the fuck up.
He headed into the living room. I heard the TV turn on. Heard him drop onto the couch with a sigh that sounded bone-deep.
I sat there for another minute, debating whether to go upstairs and lock myself in the guest room and maybe jack off to get this out of my system. Or do equally mature and healthy things like bang my head against the wall until I stopped noticing how hot my stepfather had gotten.
Instead I grabbed my beer and followed him into the living room.
Declan was sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, legs spread wide and taking up space like he owned it. Which he did.
