“We’ll both drink it. We just don’t usually make it.”

We stand there without saying anything for a second too long. His gaze slides through my skin. I can feel it deeper than I should. He’s just...how have I never noticed how wonderfully made he is? All my life, he was just Fletch. I knew he was cute—I knew he had a bunch of girlfriends, and that Jenna and I used to count the condoms in his nightstand and giggle when the number went down—but now I get it.

He’s like a gift to womankind.

He’s over six feet tall, broad shouldered, and lean muscled. His eyes...his eyes are dark as sin, but he’s always quick to smile. Quick to offer help. He holds doors. He carries heavy things. He teases to elicit smiles, not to be mean. He’s good at school, at sports, and social interaction. I’ve seen him drink, but never seen him drunk. He’s just always been this steady, capable presence in my life.

His mouth twitches, and I realize I’m being awkward. Since that’s my natural state, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it. I break the weird eye contact, sweeping my gaze down the floor. To his toes. His feet are bare below his plaid green and blue pajama pants. Why does that feel intimate? I want to touch my toes to his. Run my foot up the back of his calf and feel the springy hairs there.

I shake my head and go about the surprisingly calming ritual of measuring grounds while Fletch pours orange juice for himself. “You’d be drinking that right out of the carton if I weren’t standing here, wouldn’t you?”

He gives me a lazy smile, and I’m close to my first orgasm with someone else in the room with me. Just from his smile. God. Pathetic much?

“What time does your roommate get back today? I want to get the rest of your stuff before she returns.”

And my mood is instantly broken. I don’t want to go back to the Portal of Death, but I can’t stay here. “I was thinking I’d give it another shot with Sami. I’m sure Housing will come up with something soon.”

“Nope,” he says like he’s got a say.

“Nope?” I repeat. In case I heard him wrong or something.

“Not going to happen.”

I’m hoping my raised eyebrows are enough to encourage more of a response, but I get nothing. “It’s not really your call, Fletch.”

The machine belches its signal that its done brewing, and Fletch hands me a mug. “It is my call. You’re staying here. Shane’s on board.”

“I can’t.”

“You are.”