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Backlit by the soft glow of lamplight, which silhouettes every defined line of his body like a living sculpture in a museum, I suddenly want to spend hours studying.

Toned, taut skin stretched over lean muscle, the slope of his strong back shifting as he moves, and—Jesus Christ—pants halfway pulled on, revealing what I can only describe as a biblical event happening below the belt.

Like, stop-the-presses, change-the-course-of-history level of significance.

And when I say I clock the size of the situation, I mean I actually stop breathing. Fully, completely. My lungs just give up.

There’s a short circuit in my brain. Static. Blank screen. Reboot failed. All major systems offline.

That’s what it looks like soft?

There is no recovering from this. Not quickly. Not gracefully.

“Oh my god,” I blurt, because clearly I lack the emotional maturity to handle this situation with dignity. “Do you have to declare that thing at airport security or…?”

I don’t know why this is what comes out of my mouth, but I can’t stop it. It launches out of me like a reflex, a panicked word-vomit born of thirst for this man and poor impulse control.

Theo jolts like I zapped him with a cattle prod, yanking his pants up with comical urgency, wide eyes locking onto mine like I just caught him committing a federal offense (one that I wasn’t in on too).

A flush creeps into his cheeks, blooming pink and obvious and utterly delightful.

He actually blushes.

Which only makes me want to see it again. For science.

The blush, you perv.

Definitely the blush.

“If you ever get tired of lecturing,” I add, finally stepping fully into the room and tossing my sweater on the chair like I didn’t just have a complete systems crash, “you could definitely model for anatomy textbooks. Possibly even some advanced-level sculpture classes.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You weren’t supposed to be back yet.”

“And yet,” I say, waving vaguely in the air between us, “here we are. Me. You. And…him.”

He grabs a T-shirt from the bed. I point at him before he can put it on. “Okay but seriously. Do you give out warning notices before dating someone? Like a little laminated card that says ‘may cause speechlessness and difficulty walking the next day?’”

He holds the shirt like a shield, then lowers it like he’s reconsidering. The flush climbs higher.

“I don’t date,” he says quickly. “And you seem to have a lot to say about it,” he adds, eying me.

“Right.” I nod slowly. “Suddenly, all your quiet confidence makes a lot more sense. That is not the energy of a man uncertain about anything.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t know whether to be flattered or hide under the bed.

I kind of want to hide under the bed now too.

Maybe we can hide under there together.

This is great. Fantastic. Now that I’ve seen that, how am I supposed to concentrate on literally anything else ever again?

Lila: I just saw Theo naked(ish) and I am UNWELL.

Calla: Define naked(ish). Are we talking top half? Bottom half? Full Greek statue situation?

Serena: Was it a medical emergency? A hot professor striptease? I need context.

Lila: Pants were mid-calf. Dong was mid-thigh.