Page 117 of On the Breakaway

Does she ever not look absolutely stunning?

Hope surges through me because people don’t accidentally wear someone else’s shirt. They don’t pull it out of their closet and throw it on without thinking. Especially not Avery after sending a text that basically told me to fuck off.

Maybe this whole thing isn’t as one-sided as she’s pretending.

Then she narrows her eyes and glares.

Never mind.

“I thought you were my takeout,” she says flatly.

I hold up the grocery bags in my hands. “Close enough.”

“Leave.”

“No.”

“Amazing. Glad we cleared that up.”

She starts shutting the door in my face, but I wedge my foot into the opening before she can.

“Grayson.”

“Chaos.”

“You can’t just show up at my apartment.”

“I literally already did.”

Her eyes narrow while mine drift back to the shirt she’s wearing, because she can act annoyed all she wants, but the fact that she answered the door in my clothes feels a little too significant to ignore.

“You’re supposed to be sick,” I say.

“I’m sick.”

“You look fine.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

Her expression flickers just enough to tell me she hadn’t realized it until now, a faint blush creeping up her neck before she rolls her eyes. “There were laundry-related circumstances.”

“Sure.”

“Get your foot out of my door.”

“Are you going to slam it on me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

I shouldn’t enjoy irritating her this much. I really shouldn’t, but after days of silence, I can’t stop from gently pushing the door.

Her eyes widen. “You can’t just invite yourself into my place.”

“I’m not inviting myself.”

“Then what exactly are you doing?”