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I’ve got no idea what time it is. I crack an eye open, blinking at the warm daylight bleeding through the ridiculously large industrial windows.
This…is a really nice apartment. All dark wood, ironwork, and exposed brick. On one wall, there are floor-to-ceiling windows paned with black, with a window bench that’s just begging to be curled up on with a worn paperback. Smudges on the glass tell me Sunday must sit there often. Tipping my head to look behind me, I see a staircase leading up to a mezzanine level where I can see the tail end of a huge, black bed.
Last night comes back to me in fragments. Fingers wandering, voices raised, teeth sinking into my wrist. It gets hazy after that. I squeeze my eyes closed to the images of the previous night—my hands pressing into rough bricks, and warm muscle against my back.
I wriggle my way back up to sitting, mortification swelling in my gut. No, I must have imagined that. There’s no way that he—
“Welcome to MTV Crypts,” a husky voice calls from the open-plan kitchen. I shift my head to find Sunday sauntering over, dressed in double-layered gym shorts and a loose-fitting tank top that doesn’t do much to hide his musculature.
“How did you get this place?” I croak, internally cringing at the sound of my voice. I know that Sunday’s parents are well off, but he was never one for taking handouts. At least, he never used to be.
Without missing a beat, he walks over and grabs the water bottle from the coffee table, handing it to me. “It started as a guardianship for some art curator guy, but he passed away. Left it to me in his will because he didn’t have any living family members left. I got lucky, I guess.”
My fingers tighten on the bottle of water, swishing it around before taking a sip. It’s kind of peachy, with an undertone of grit thanks to the minerals. It’s not awful, and I know it should, in theory, make me feel better. I hope so, because I feel disgusting—the human embodiment of regret.
Sunday wanders back into the kitchen. It doesn’t look like he’s showered yet, judging by the hair curling at the nape of his neck. I watch him as he moves around, chopping and smashing what I think is avocado into a bowl.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Just after twelve. You slept like the dead,” he says, sucking avocado from his thumb. My cheeks heat, and I suddenly find the bottle in my hand very interesting.
“I feel like it. Probably look like it too.” I lift the collar of my shirt, taking a whiff. When the scent hits me, it dawns on me that it’s not my shirt at all—and neither are the boxers.
Spirit lead me.
“Nah, you look better than you did earlier. Less rotting corpse and more undead chic.”
I shake my head, instantly regretting it when it feels like my brain careens into the side of my skull.
“Feel up to eating?” Sunday asks, tapping a knife quietly on the edge of a plate. I nod my head, wiggling my way out of the blanket and swinging my legs over the couch to sit properly.
Sunday seems unsettled. I can feel it rolling off him in errant waves as he approaches. I stare at the plate he offers me, toast laden with avocado and fluffy white eggs sprinkled with herbs and sesame seeds. He even remembered the ketchup.
I can’t help the way my thoughts nosedive into confusion. I know we argued last night—that I haven’t forgotten. But it’s a little difficult to hold onto all that rage when he’s looking after me like this. Hard to ignore the fact that his hands on my face and his body crowding mine soothed my earlier panic.
He settles beside me, and we eat in companionable, if slightly awkward, silence. He was always a bit of a crappy cook, so I’m pleasantly surprised by how good it is, making an appreciative sound as I shove the last bite into my mouth.
“Thank you. Good to see you’re not still living on ramen,” I say, handing him my plate. He takes it, placing it with his on the coffee table, then stretches out and tucks his hands behind his head.
Yeah, definitely not living on ramen noodles with that body. My eyes snag on the dark hair in his armpit, marveling at the fact he still smells so good. Did I hit my head last night, too?
“You know I put on a ton of weight the year after graduation? Can’t even blame it on a dirty bulk.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s where you just eat a shitload while working out. Bulk up your mass, so that when you cut your calories, all this is revealed.” He lifts his shirt, smacking his palm over his well-defined and ink-stained abs. I drag my eyes over the negative space pattern until it disappears into his shorts. I look away sharply, earning a burst of low, warm laughter.
He knocks his knee into mine jovially, but a strange expression crosses his features. A hint of apprehension, maybe.
Silence falls between us and stretches uncomfortably. I rub my clammy hands down my legs, trying to think of a way to break the tension.
His voice punctures the silence. “Listen, about last night…”
Here we go.
“You… you, ah, said that you hated me. But then you said that you didn’t?”
I don’t know what to say. And unfortunately, when Sunday gets anxious, his mouth tends to just keep going.
