Soft enough to make my skin feel tight.
Then he nodded and disappeared down the hall.
I listened to the shower turn on.
Which was a mistake.
Because then my brain had five full minutes to imagine Drew naked under hot water in the same house where I was lying on his couch wearing his last name across my back.
I tried to focus on Netflix.
The algorithm suggested crime documentaries, cooking competitions, and a Regency romance with a shirtless man on the cover.
Rude.
I picked a cooking show out of self-defense.
Drew came back before I had learned anything except that I was emotionally unprepared for fresh-out-of-the-shower Drew.
Gray sweats hung low on his hips, loose enough to be disrespectful. His shirt was one of those cutoff things that should not qualify as clothing, all open sides and broad chest and biceps that made me briefly believe in bad decisions as a lifestyle. His hair was damp, darker at the ends, curling slightly around his temples.
And he smelled—like some divine male soap designed in a secret lab to ruin women with standards. Clean. Warm. Expensive but not trying. Something like cedar and mint and skin.
My entire body noticed.
Every single useless part of it.
He looked at me. “You okay?”
“No.”
His brows shot up.
I cleared my throat. “I mean, yes. The show is annoying.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The doorbell rang.
Saved by noodles.
Drew smirked like he knew exactly what had happened and went to get the food.
By the time he came back, I had recovered enough dignity to sit up straighter and pretend his forearms did not interest me. He moved around the kitchen with the same easy order as the rest of the house, pulling plates from cabinets, opening containers, dividing food without asking.
“You don’t have to make me a plate,” I called.
“I know.”
“I have hands.”
“I noticed.”
He glanced over his shoulder at me, and the look that passed between us made the room tilt.
Then he smiled.
“I just like feeding you, Texas.”
