Turning his eyes back to Shaw, North felt a few more pieces of gravel get lodged in his throat. Yes, something was different. And that difference was in Shaw. Not the near-total nudity; Shaw loved to be almost naked. North was convinced that the only reason Shaw wore anything some days was because of the scar. No, the difference was something else, maybe in that one beautiful arch of the back that had shown off the smooth planes of Shaw’s chest, that had been eerily reminiscent of North’s dreams—a long time ago, before Tuck—of what Shaw would look like getting fucked. It was something else. It was the eyes, those hazel eyes.

“Morning,” Shaw said.

North found a chair under a pile of shoes—most of them looked like they’d never been worn, which was a very real possibility with Shaw—and dragged it over to the bed. North sat, his legs spread, his elbows on his knees and looked at Shaw. Looked at the shower.

“You know, it doesn’t really work if you don’t get under the water.”

“It’s called a hydro-pneumatic bath. They’re all the rage in Israel. You just run the shower as hot as you can and soak up the steam.”

North studied him, trying to read the lie. “Bullshit.”

Shaw shrugged. That fold of cotton slipped, exposing a sliver of matted, dark hair.

“You reek. Maybe it’s just last night. Maybe it’s because you’re trying to go off deodorant again—”

“That was one time junior year.”

“—but you need a real shower. Not an Israeli steam.”

“Hydro-pneumatic bath.”

“And soap, Shaw. Lots and lots of soap.”

“Are you going to watch me and make sure I do it right?”

North grinned, but it felt weird and crooked. “Only if you make me. I’ve seen enough bony asses in my life.”

“Really? How many?”

“One is enough, and I have to see yours every time you wear those goddamn Lululemon pants. You know they’re see-through, right? Like, you pretty much gave those kids a ‘your wonderful body’ lesson the last time you tried to do yoga in the park.”

Shaw didn’t smile. He was just lying there, arms behind his head, studying North. And then he rolled onto his side, carrying that tiny swatch of the sheet with him, and caught North’s wrist. He turned over his hand, studied the taped-up lacerations, and then his eyes floated up to the cut on North’s cheek. Those hazel eyes were so deep, so variegated. North could have spent a lifetime cataloguing every green and brown.

Just say boxing, North told himself. Just explain it: early start, straight to the gym, sparring. But nothing came out of his mouth. It was those eyes. They were just so fucking spectacular. And the way Shaw was looking at him: compassionate, understanding, expecting. Just say boxing, North told himself again. Just squeak out that one little word, and it’ll be enough.

Neither of them spoke. And after a moment, Shaw said, “Boxing?”

All North could do was nod and pull his hand free.