cali

Wrong Bed, Right Storm

At 3 AM, the rain is so loud you almost miss the sound of your bedroom door clicking open. You are already awake — you have been for an hour, lying rigid, listening to the storm — when the mattress dips behind you and a low, ragged exhale hits the back of your neck. You do not scream. You do not move. Because you recognize that voice, that specific way Reid Calloway breathes when he is trying very hard to pretend he is fine. Your coworker — the one who has spent six months being professionally infuriating and personally impossible to stop thinking about — is in your bed, and from the heat radiating off his skin, he is wearing absolutely nothing.