Initially, everything was fine. We made it into our room a little after ten o’clock and decided it wasn’t even worth it to turn on the television. Besides, we wanted to get an early start at the flea market.

Party animals we are not.

I took the bathroom first to get ready for bed, thanking Jesus, Mary, and all the saints I brought a pair of old sleep shorts because boxer briefs leave nothing to the imagination, and I still get sprung like a fifteen-year-old if Shelby so much as sneezes in a cute way. She’s fucking adorable when she sneezes, so it’s a whole thing.

I crawled into my twin bed approximately one inch bigger than my frame in every direction and picked up my phone to scroll through sports scores while Shelby ducked into the bathroom.

“You can turn off the lights,” she said. “I’ll be a few minutes.”

“It’s pretty dark. I don’t mind.”

She muttered something under her breath and closed the door. I read scores, checked the weather app, and ignored another email from my agent before the bathroom door opened. Shelby was holding her clothes in front of her chest, but I barely noticed because all I saw were her legs. Miles of legs under a T-shirt that barely covered her spectacular ass. I inwardly groaned and shifted in my bedding, pooling the quilt near my waist. She cleared her throat, turning pink.

“So. This is awkward.” She dropped her arms and I choked out a cough.

“Is that my shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“Still?”

“Yeah.” She tucked her hair behind a glowing-red ear. “Well. It’s really soft.”

“I bet. It’s, like, twelve years old.”

“Yeah,” she said again, biting her lip. “I swear I have other sleep shirts.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” I said, willing a teasing tone past my bone-dry throat.

“I should give it back to you probably.”

“No!” I said. Christ that’s the last thing I need. “It’s fine. It’s yours. Possession is nine-tenths of the law or whatever.”

“Okay,” she said and tucked her clothes in her suitcase before scrambling under her covers and hiding her bare legs away.

That should have been the end of it. So what if she was sleeping in my shirt? If she’s been sleeping in my shirt for twelve years? It’s fine. It’s not like she’s touched herself thinking of me while wearing my shirt. It’s not like it smells like me. For fuck’s sake, I barely owned it. It’s honestly her shirt at this point. I turned over in the dark, facing her, and closed my eyes. Within seconds I heard her breathing even out. I thought I was about to follow her into sleep when the softest, most breathless little whimper echoed into the silence from her bed.

My eyes shot open.