Then he was gone. The door clicked shut.
I lay there for another minute, staring at the ceiling, his scent still all around me.
Finally, I forced myself to move. Getting dressedfelt strange. My clothes smelled like last night, like his room, like us. The suspenders were tangled. I couldn’t find my other sock. I gave up and shoved the single one in my pocket.
My reflection caught me as I passed his mirror. Same face. Same hair sticking up in the back. Same glasses.
Different person.
I looked like someone who’d spent the night with Jason. Like someone who had plans to do it again tonight. Like someone who knew what Jason’s hands felt like, what sounds he made when he came, how his breath caught.
I looked like someone who finally knew what it meant when they said that something just felt right.
I looked happy.
The realization startled me enough that I had to look away.
I gathered my things, made sure the bed was somewhat presentable, and let myself out. The hallway was empty. Downstairs, voices drifted from someone’s bedroom. I moved quickly, quietly, and slipped out the front door.
The front door of the Thinkers’ House opened without resistance. I stepped inside, still carrying my backpack, still missing one sock.
Rowan stood at the kitchen island, spreading butter on toast with the same focused precision he applied to coding. He looked up as I entered.
His eyes narrowed immediately. He set down the knife.
“That’s a walk of shame if I ever saw one,” he said.
I bit my lip and glanced around. The living room was empty. No one else seemed to be up yet. “I’m not exactly ashamed of it,” I said.
Rowan slapped his hands together and laughed, loud and delighted. “I knew it. Was it Dud? You’re kinky, my friend.”
Horror flooded through me, followed by laughter I couldn’t stop. “Oh my God. No. Absolutely not. I did not sleep with a Cave Troll.”
“But you slept with someone,” Rowan pressed, grinning.
I crossed to the kitchen and set my backpack down. My face burned. “Maybe.”
“Maybe.” Rowan snorted. “You’re wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Your hair looks like you wrestled a bear. And you have that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I got laid, and it was good’ look,” he said bluntly.
I grabbed the butter knife from him and focused very hard on preparing my own toast. “You’re insufferable.”
“So it was Jason,” Rowan said, satisfied. “The football guy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Rowan leaned against the counter, arms folded, looking far too pleased withhimself. “He came to our game. He walked you home. You’ve been tutoring him for weeks. And now you’re doing the walk of shame in suspenders.”
I looked down. I’d twisted one suspender by accident. I fixed it without comment.
“I’m happy for you,” Rowan said, softer now. “You deserve something good.”
The sincerity in his voice made me fall silent. I focused on buttering the toast in even strokes. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Bennet…”