Page 63 of The Quirky Vet
"I'm fine with it," I reply.
"Just no passing wind." He points a finger at me. "Your farts qualify as crimes against humanity."
"Fuck off." I raise my finger in return. "What about you and your snoring? I didn't bring my noise-cancelling headphones."
He grins and sticks his pinkie out. "Deal. No snoring in exchange for no farting."
I think we both know both things are going to happen regardless of what pledges we make, but I hook my pinkie around his anyway. "Deal."
Twenty minutes later, I'm showered and in bed, waiting for Fitz to finish up in the bathroom before we turn off the lights.
Our course starts at nine sharp tomorrow, and I'm not looking forward to it. I don't share Fitz's borderline certifiable passion for periodontics. Dentistry has never been my strength, and while I recognise it's good to be up to speed on it, I can think of a hundred other things I'd rather be doing than learning about subgingival scaling and flap surgery.
Like making out with my best mate and copping another handy.
My eyes fly to the bathroom door—still shut—and I listen out for the shower—still going. If I were smart, I'd be rubbing one out while he's in there so I stop being so easily arousable.
But I didn't think of that, did I? No.
I bang my head against the headboard a few times and lift my knees to mask my half chub straining through my boxers.
He was quiet over dinner, and I suspect his meeting with Erin was playing on his mind. Was he hoping for a reunion? Was she cold to him? Did she say something to upset him?
Normally, I'd ask.
But normally, I'm not this invested in his romantic life.
Like always, I only want what's best for him, but I can't deny that I have a stake in things, too. Even if I'm not sure how far that stake actually extends.
The bathroom door opens, and a thick cloud of steam billows out.
"Fuck, I really needed that," Fitz says, flicking the bathroom light off and traipsing over to the bed.
I barely register his words, instead focusing on what he's wearing.
A towel.
Onlya towel.
He gets closer, and I can clearly make out the beads of water still clinging to his sculpted chest, each muscle defined under the sheen of his damp skin. The towel is slung dangerously low on his hips, highlighting the V-line that disappears beneath it. His brown hair is wet, tousled messily, a few strands clinging to his forehead.
My mind races ahead.
He can't sleep in that towel, surely, and I doubt he'd bother with the towel at all if he was wearing undies, which means… Oh boy.
"Have you set an alarm?" he asks.
It takes effort, but I manage to pull my attention away from his body. "I did."
"Cool."
He digs out a charger and plugs his phone in. "I won't do one, then."
"Yeah. No need," I agree.
And then, without warning, he unhooks the towel, rests it over the back of the chair, and slides under the sheets, like it's no freaking big deal.
Which maybe for him it isn't.