Page 15

When my stomach demanded lunch, I wandered into the kitchen with the kind of zombie-like energy that came from staring at Illustrator files for three hours straight. I moved through the motions of making a sandwich—bread, cheese, turkey, pickle—my body on autopilot, my brain still tangled in the jagged aftertaste of last night’s dream. A dream where Eric had showed up at the apartment, said he’d made a mistake, pulled me into his arms, and whispered that I was enough. I woke up crying.

I hated how much I missed him. Not the real him, but the idea of him. The comfort of having someone, even if it was someone who didn’t see me. At least then I could pretend that I mattered, that I was wanted. That I didn’t have to change myself into a smaller, softer, more palatable version just to be chosen.

Was there a version of me that could ever actually be wanted?

Putting the sandwich on a plate—I made sure not to take the blue one—I walked into the living room.

And froze.

The curtains on the balcony doors were open, and Roman was outside.

Shirtless.

Doing burpees.

The sunlight hit him just so, highlighting every cut of muscle like the universe was playing a cruel joke on me. His back arched with each movement, and sweat shone on his skin. Roman’s hair was mussed in a way that I wanted to hate but couldn’t because he looked like the poster child for the Emotionally Available Lumberjack aesthetic.

I sat down and did my best not to gawk.

It didn’t work.

I knew ogling my roommate like a creeper was terribly wrong, but in my defense, he looked like he’d been sculpted from marble as the perfect example of the male body. Roman was the ultimate thirst trap. Some kind of ancient Greek god whose apartment listing I’d stumbled upon. His body moved like it was built to tempt and ruin.

I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed without tasting it, because of course he had to be stupid hot. The universe loved giving me things I couldn’t have.

He switched to push-ups, and good lord, I nearly drooled.

The veins in his arms flexed, muscles coiling and shifting with an elegance that had no business being legal. Heat coiled low in my belly before I could stop it. The involuntary, traitorous throb of attraction made me drop my sandwich back on the plate.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about him like this. I’d just gotten out of a relationship. A messy one, at that. I was still licking my wounds, still doubting everything about myself—my worth, my desirability, whether I’d ever be enough for someone without reshaping myself entirely.

But none of that stopped the very vivid, very unwholesome thought that drifted into my head, which involved him, the balcony railing, and fewer clothes.

The door slid open, and there he was, wiping his hands on a towel, breathing steadily like he hadn’t just made my ovaries riot. I tried to look away—I swear I did—but my gaze locked on him like it had a mind of its own. I swallowed. Hard.

There might have been drool.

He caught my eyes and—God help me—grinned. Subtle, slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he could smell the heat in my face. Which, unfortunately, he probably could. My cheeks flamed. I straightened and bit into my sandwich to pretend I was chill. So chill. The chillest. A glacier of non-horniness.

He yanked the curtains shut, then walked past me, casual as ever.

“Making a smoothie,” he said. “Protein. Want one?”

His voice was rougher than usual, a little deeper from exertion. It rolled over me like warm honey and made my brain glitch.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I coughed once, cleared my throat, and tried again.

“No, thanks,” I managed, my voice a shade too high.

He nodded and turned to the blender.

I sat there, red-faced and flustered, wondering how I’d gone from emotionally unavailable trainwreck to horny roommate disaster in under ninety seconds.

After another hour of work, a loud knock at the front door startled me. Firm and fast, like the person on the other side had expectations.

I wiped my hands on my leggings and opened the door.

“You must be Maggie,” the woman said with a perfect, practiced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She brushed past me like I was a decorative inconvenience.