Page 23 of Let the Light Shine Through

What. The. Hell?

My eyes settle on the window directly in front of me. I’m not late. I’m at the wrong end of the bed—Roz’s bed. I fell asleep somewhere else. Shiiitt.

I drop backward on an exhale, landing on something much firmer than a pillow, and Roz—in all his naked-torso glory—stretches an arm over my chest, pressing the damp shirt to my skin.

The night rushes back to me in pieces, but from the parts I can recall, it’s safe to say we didn’t have sex.

But so…why the sweat? And who the hell initiated the cuddlefest happening right now because I don’t cuddle?

I need to find my phone and check on my dad.

First, I have to get out of this…embrace. Before I combust. Good gawd, it’s hot in here.

Carefully rolling out from under Roz’s arm, I’m just off the bed when I remember my current clothing situation. A tee and shorts won’t cut it. Not today.

The alarm clock in the corner of the room mocks me and my idea to run home. I could…if I started now. And actually ran. Great.

The deepest, sexiest, most panty-melting—if panties are your thing—voice asks, “Where do you think you’re going?” but I’m already glancing around the room because I actually don’t wear panties.

“I, uh, I have something,” I tell Roz, moving for his closet.

“Can it wait?”

Roz lifts his head from the mattress to track me but ends up wincing, rubbing his neck.

I check the time again and shake my head.

Lucky for me my neck feels fine. Roz’s chest made for a beautiful pillow—both practical and decorative.

I grab a pair of pants stiff enough to pass as riding pants, then disappear out his door. Downstairs, I discover my sports bra dry—thankfully—and…folded? The rest of my outfit from last night still hangs on the shower rod above the bathtub, wet as a spring morning, but my bra rests on the counter folded—wait for it—into quarters. The only thing I can’t seem to find are my boxer briefs with a smiley face on the crotch. Someone’s hard up around here.

I snatch up the bra, changing into it, Roz’s pants, and the shoes I had the genius idea to place over a vent last night before heading back upstairs too fast to worry about anything else.

Roz has his head in his hands, sitting at the end of his bed when I walk in and he immediately glances up, eyeing me.

“Can I borrow a hoodie?”

He nods cautiously, pointing to a tall dresser, and without thought, I turn around, putting my back on full display. Two mistakes in one morning. Damn.

A sharp inhale the only sound in the room, I grimace but hold steady, refusing to react. It’s happened before and it usually isn’t that big of a deal. They ask, I redirect the conversation. Plenty of fun all around. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Roz is cute. I wanted to play with him at least a little longer.

“Gia?”

I remove a midnight blue sweatshirt from one of his drawers, ignoring him and his loud-ass stare. For such a quiet guy, Roz’s attention is deafening. You know when Roz is focused on you. You can feel it.

“Gia.”

Gentle hands fall on my hips, keeping me in place, but when I go to lift the sweatshirt over my head, he catches it, throwing the item across the room in a not-so-gentle way.

Fucking great. I guess we are doing this.

Soft fingertips ghost across my back, raising the tiny hairs there, and I shut my eyes, mentally cursing myself for acting so thoughtlessly. I’m always careful.

But Roz…he’s different. Roz is sweet. And respectful. The only other time I’ve ever been asked about my pronouns was when I got sent to the head of school for sitting like I had a ten-inch dick under my skirt—my words, not theirs. Although the way they asked what I identify as, I’m sure they were thinking it.

Also, Roz smells good. Amazing actually, like the smell of fresh snowfall on a lazy winter weekend.

But being respectful and smelling good don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.