“It’s a T-shirt and shorts, Jacks.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re looking at me like I’m wearing a tuxedo.”
“I’m looking at you like I can see every muscle you own through that shirt, which is significantly better than any tuxedo ever worn by any man . . . ever . . . in the history of tuxes.”
He flushed, glancing down at himself as thoughthe outfit had betrayed him. “These are my sleep clothes.”
“Then I’m a big fan of bedtime.”
He rolled his eyes, but his blush deepened, creeping down his neck in a way that made me want to trace its path with my mouth. So I did. Stepping forward, I slid my hand around the back of his neck and pressed my lips to the warm skin below his jaw.
He made a moaning sound—soft, involuntary—and his hands found my waist.
We kissed in his cramped laundry room for more minutes than I could count.
Time didn’t matter.
And it wasn’t the desperate, hungry kissing from earlier. It was something slower and deeper, the kind of kissing that wasn’t trying to go anywhere. It existed entirely for its own sake.
His hands roamed my back over my shirt while mine settled on his hips, my thumbs tracing the edges of those silky shorts.
The washing machine hummed beside us, filling the small room with white noise. It should’ve been unromantic beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting with a basket of dirty towels in the corner and the faint smell of detergent, but with Skyler’s arms around me and his mouth warm against mine, it felt like the most intimate place on earth.
He pulled back, pressing our foreheads together.
“I could do this forever,” he murmured.
“That’s a lot of laundry.”
He shook his head, causing both our heads to turn through his laughter.
“Idiot. I meant the kissing.”
“I know.” I winked, then kissed the tip of his nose, which made him scrunch his face in a way that should have been illegal for a grown man built like a statue.
Then he yawned.
And not a petite, polite thing.
This was a massive, jaw-cracking, full-body yawn that he tried to smother against my shoulder and failed spectacularly, like in funny cat videos on TikTok.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not bored. I swear. You’re the opposite of boring. It’s—”
“You flew across the country, played eight games in two weeks, and had a significant life experience on your living room couch.” I stepped back, keeping hold of his hands. “You need sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re yawning into my clavicle.”
“That’s a sign of affection in some cultures.”
“Name one.”
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
I laughed again and squeezed his hands. “I should go, let you rest.”
