Even sadder was the glaring emptiness that was the rest of the house. Growing up an only child myself, I was no stranger to having embarrassing photos and sentimental knick-knacks scattered around the house. Mementos from my childhood that my parents not only hung up, but bothered to take and save in the first place.

Something tells me Waylon never had that. At least, not under his dad’s roof. But I’m sure Reggie has stuff. Maybe the Montgomery’s too.

The room Waylon lives in now isn’t exactly cluttered, but he seems to have more books and notebooks than he has space to store them. There appears to be a system, though, so I don’t dare disturb the meticulous piles scattered over his dresser and nightstand. My eyes latch onto the narrow bookcase across the room—his black Fender propped up against it—and I make my way over, unable to help myself.

The thing is filled to the gills; it’s a wonder it hasn’t collapsed. The books he stored here are older. Well-read. A fine layer of dust coats the bindings, clinging to my finger as I drag it over the bumpy ridges. Searching, searching...

There.

My mouth lifts as I take in the familiar title. I gently pry the book, my thumb stroking the weathered cover reverently. It’s the same, I think. It has to be.

“Snooping?”

My grip tightens as I whirl around. I didn’t hear the door open.

Waylon gently shuts it behind him, eyes lingering on what I hold in my hand. His dark hair curls messily over his brow, the strands sticking to his flushed skin. A dark brow arches pointedly as he finally lifts his gaze to mine.

“Of course,” I finally manage, my voice raspy from disuse. I crook a smile to add some much-needed levity to the moment.

His eyes are dark and unreadable, but he doesn’t seem angry. Just...resigned. Maybe? It’s hard to tell. I might still be drunk.

He nods slowly, his eyes flicking down to my chest. His brow furrows.

Right. I’m naked. How could I forget?

I run my free hand through my damp hair, slicking it back some as I glance away. “Yeah, so, um, thanks.”

I hear the shuffle of clothes and look up just in time to catch his bare, muscular back as he exchanges his sweat-damp hoodie and t-shirt for a clean white tee from his dresser. My mouth dries. Jesus.

“For the, uh, shower,” I go on stupidly, “and for, well, taking care of my drunk ass.” I force a short laugh as I watch the dark ink peeking out around his rib cage disappear as he tugs the thin fabric down over his toned torso. “You didn’t have to...”

Nothing. Not a chuckle, not a peep.

I swallow. “Right, I should just—”