Page 40 of Catching Flynn

Not a polite tap either. The knock that said, “open up, I know you’re in there, and also I’ve never respected a sleeping schedule in my life.”

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Behind him, the apartment stayed quiet. Bedroom quiet. Warm-man-in-bed quiet. Flynn pictured Zavier sprawled in the sheets. Sleepy, naked, and very much worth returning to. That image alone nearly made him ignore the door on principle.

The knock came again.

“I am so gonna punch you,” Flynn snarled quietly. “In my imagination.”

With all the grace of a haunted Victorian child, Flynn shuffled forward. His body was not awake enough for extra steps. It was more of a soft-footed trudge, one shoulder dipping every few steps like he was manually operating himself. He scratched at his hair, yawned so hard his jaw ached, and reached the door totally annoyed.

After Flynn had been wrecked so thoroughly, his only goal was to burrow back under the covers.

When he opened it, morning air slipped in, cool and faintly damp from sometime before sunrise.

Garrett stood there in a fitted T-shirt and joggers. His hair slightly mussed, but still perfect. Leaning one shoulder against the frame, he gave Flynn a smile built to get away with things.

“Morning.”

Flynn stared at him. “That remains to be seen.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “You look cute when you’re grumpy.”

“That’s because I’m tiny and sleep-deprived. Everything looks cuter in miniature.” Flynn braced a hand on the doorframe. “Why are you knocking at my door at ass o’clock?”

A gust of outside air brushed over Flynn’s bare legs. It smelled like wet concrete and somebody’s cigarette from down below. He wished, deeply and sincerely, to be horizontal again.

Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “Need to borrow your hammer.”

Flynn just looked at him.

Then he looked harder.

Gorgeous neighbor. Chronic mooch. The apartment building’s answer to a raccoon with excellent bone structure.

“You already borrowed my hammer,” Flynn reminded him.

Garrett blinked, as if this fact hadn’t occurred to him. “Did I?”

“Yes.” Flynn shifted his weight and crossed one ankle over the other. “Three weeks ago.”

A pause passed. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed.

Garrett gave a sheepish half-smile and mumbled, “I don’t know where I put it.”

“Probably with my nails and picture wire.”

Garrett huffed a laugh, clearly trying to smooth things over. Flynn wasn’t smiling.

“I swear I don’t have your hammer,” Garrett said, lifting both hands a little. “If I had it, I’d bring it back.”

“Garrett, you have half my apartment.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s inventory.” Flynn started counting on his fingers. “My hammer. My good screwdriver set. A tape measure. Two extension cords. My level. The pruners.”

Garrett frowned. “The pruners were yours?”