“You’re so drunk,” he retorts.
“Sherlock,” I say, reaching out to bop his nose but missing and hitting his cheek instead. His skin is soft. Softer than mine. Just another way we’re different.
“So fucking smart,” I say.
He sighs and then tugs the wayward pants from my ankle and folds them. I don’t think my pants have ever been folded so nicely before. He probably irons his clothes. Even his underwear.
Whit sets the nicely folded pants on the end table near my head. To do so, though, he has to lean over me, and I get a whiff of him.
Damn, he smells good.
I’m pretty sure I don’t smell that good.
I know it, actually.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he says and then glances at me like he doesn’t want to touch me.
Don’t blame him. I’m a mess. Wouldn’t want to touch me either.
“I can get up myself,” I say and then use the wall to help me push myself to a standing position. My thighs bunch and flex under my weight, and when I finally manage to stand up, Whit is glancing up at me, still crouched down.
His cheeks are pink again.
“Why you always blushing around me?” I ask, my mouth unfiltered at the moment.
I blame the pitcher of beer my cousins bought, and I consumed like a champ. And the fact that everything is hazy and spinning at the moment.
“I don’t blush,” he bites out and then walks into the room. Like I’m supposed to follow him.
Probably should.
Maybe he’ll tuck me in. Run those long, delicate fingers through my hair.
I’d really fucking like that.
“You’re really pretty when you blush,” I say to his back. Whit stumbles slightly, and I reach out to steady him, but I miss entirely. Just end up grabbing the air like the clown I am.
“Get in,” Whit snaps, holding my messy covers open for me. His bed is always neatly made while mine is, well, never. Who has time to make a bed every single fucking morning? Not me, apparently.
It probably causes him anxiety, living with me.
Probably why he hates me.
Hates my messy sheets and unfolded clothes.
He probably itches to scrub me clean.
I don’t think I’d mind that all that much, to be honest.
“Tucking me in?” I ask with a small smile, and then without waiting for an answer, I slide inside the cool sheets. Probably should wash them. It’s been a few weeks.
He tosses the offensive covers over my shoulders, and the corner smacks me against my cheek.
I brush it down and close my eyes with a small sigh.
“Are you going to throw up?” Whit asks, his voice echoing from above me.
He’s a mile away.