I kick off my heels and pull my hair off my sweaty neck. Sloane and I danced for the past two hours straight, up until she left with her bartender beau, and I ordered a ride back here.

As I walk through the house, I flick on more lights. Sloane is neater than me, so the living room and kitchen are both clean. I pour myself a glass of water and text her.

Evie: Just got home.

Evie: You good?

In response, she sends a photo of the bartender making her a drink…shirtless and in what must be his kitchen. I laugh at it and then switch over to my thread with Gray. He hasn’t sent anything since our exchange earlier. I type out my address, send it, and then toss my phone on the counter and head for the bathroom. After dancing in the bar for a couple of hours, I feel sweaty and gross.

I shower and shave all the necessary spots, stepping out of the stall right as the doorbell rings. My towel is missing from the hook. Sloane must have washed it. Considerate and really inconvenient right now. I dart down the hall, almost wiping out twice before I reach the hall closet and find a towel.

By the time I make it to the front door, my skin is still damp, and I’m out of breath. I peer through the peephole before I open the door.

Gray is leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, looking like he’s been standing out here for hours, not minutes. He takes in my wet hair and bare feet and heaving chest. I’m guessing most of his late-night hookups look a little more put together. A hint of amusement forms in the corners of his eyes and the curve of his lips.

“This your thing?”

“Huh?” I ask eloquently.

“Answering doors, wearing a towel. This is the second time it’s happened.”

“This is the second time I’ve ever answered a door, wearing a towel,” I reply. “Guess it’s just your lucky night.”

“Yeah, it is.”

He leans forward and kisses me before strolling inside, which I was not expecting. I shut the door and turn around to watch him take in the front hallway. There’s not much to see, just a striped rug and the hall table Sloane brought from her old place. Framed prints lean against the wall, waiting to be hung up.

“Decorating is a work in progress,” I explain as we walk down the hallway and past the kitchen. “My room is down here.”

It feels strange having him here in my space. Even weirder than when he was in my childhood bedroom. Gray spent plenty of time at my house growing up. Not because of me, but still, he was there. This room is all me. The only reason he’s here is me.

“Wow. You have a lot of books.”