I level a deadpan glare at him as I unwrap a burrito.
He has the audacity to flick those gorgeous eyes down me in a curious perusal. I decide to give him a taste of his own medicine, wetting my lips and slowly lowering my mouth to the burrito.
His pupils dilate.
The flat of my tongue meets the tortilla before I bite down.
His lips part.
As I chew, I let out a small moan.
Watching the realization dawn on him makes me grin.
His cheeks flush and he spins away. We continue our meal in charged silence while Mitz diligently inspects the empty takeout containers. Remy stabs a straw through the lid of his drink and sips, tipping his chin to the mess of textbooks and notes on the coffee table.
“Thanks… I gotta get back to it.”
I wipe my mouth, scrambling for any excuse to stay a few more minutes in his presence, but come up empty. Sighing, I gather the garbage and toss it. When I’ve finished cleaning, I turn around to find Remy on the couch with his laptop balanced on one thigh.
It’s impossible to miss the way his gym shorts have ridden up. Or where they bunch at his crotch. Is he commando?
I need a cold shower.
Rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans, I rock on my heels. “I guess I’ll… go now.”
Can I be any more fucking awkward?
The answer is a resounding no.
He looks up from his computer, puzzled. “You’re leaving?”
“You have to study.”
A blush sneaks up his neck. “I mean, I can study with you here.”
He wants me to stay. In his apartment. With him. While he studies.
Have I entered an alternate dimension?
Probably, but fuck it.
I walk my happy ass to the couch and plop into the opposite corner, pulling out my phone. He bites his lip and resumes while I pretend to be interested in what’s on my screen. In reality, I’m memorizing every detail of him.
22
Win
Six Years Ago
Claps and whoops ricochet through the bleachers as I cut through a cluster of students in track uniforms. Parents’ cheers mix with coaches’ hollers and blaring whistles; the cacophony is static glitching out my brain. I’m drifting outside of myself, moving on auto pilot as my eyes glaze over.
I fucking hate crowds. They’re vicious riptides sucking me into a swirling, disorienting vortex of bodies and noise.
Shivering, I sink deeper into my borrowed hoodie, inhaling the remnants of Remy’s scent. The tension in my shoulders releases a bit. Wearing something of his makes me feel like I’m wrapped safely in his arms. I’ve stolen a total of five hoodies, three sweats and a fuckload of tees, only returning them when they lose his distinct smell.
He doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, I think he likes seeing me in his clothes. (I’ve caught him staring at me in them and adjusting himself on more than one occasion.)
My fingers toy with the bag of M&Ms in my front pocket as I ascend the slippery metal steps. The damp cold makes my joints ache and my nose sting. It’s a fucking lie that Florida is sunny and warm year round. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t dare venture out in this miserable weather let alone to a school event, but it’s the first home track meet of the season and Remy is competing.
