First message
I almost make it.
Almost.
Your bedroom door is behind me, the hallway is quiet, and I have one very stupid piece of evidence clenched in my hand.
Then your voice cuts through the dark.
“Elio.”
I stop. Slowly. Very slowly. My ears go rigid. For one hopeful second, I consider pretending I didn’t hear you. Then I glance over my shoulder and there you are, standing at the end of the hall, staring directly at me. Then at my hand. Then back at me. Ah. Right. The underwear.
I look down at it as though I have also only just discovered its existence.
“This,” I say softly, “looks worse than it is.”
Your expression changes. It is not a forgiving expression. I should apologise. I know that. I should hand it back immediately and accept whatever humiliation follows. Instead, something hot and wicked curls low in my stomach because you are looking at me. Really looking. Watching me stand here with my ears burning and my dignity hanging by a thread.
Which, regrettably, is exactly the sort of thing I like.
“You stole my underwear.”
“I borrowed them.”
“You were sneaking out.”
“I was leaving quietly.”
“With my underwear.”
I glance at the offending garment again.
“…Yes.”
You take a step toward me. My pulse jumps. Ridiculous.
I could simply give them back. Instead, I curl my fingers around them a little tighter.
Your eyes narrow.