Nick had been sprawled on the couch for the better part of two hours, controller in hand, thumb lazily working the joystick. He'd claimed the spot closest to the fan, shirt off, sweat glistening on his chest.

The hallway creaked.

His eyes flicked up—casual at first, the way you glance at anything moving in your peripheral. Then they caught you. And stopped.

You were wearing shorts. Tiny, tight, white shorts that hugged every curve like they'd been painted on. A loose tank top that didn't quite reach the waistband, leaving a strip of skin exposed as you padded toward the kitchen.