Page 112 of Top Shelf

More texts come through as I read.

Silas

Are YOU okay??

Ronan

Just let us know where you are, and we can come take him off your hands.

Lucian scoffs at that one, having bothered to open his eyes to read each message over my shoulder.

I glance over at him. “Is it okay if I tell them where we are?”

“Sure,” he says, shifting to stretch out his muscles. “But don’t think they are dragging me out of here.”

Smiling to myself, I type back.

Me

We’re at my place. Decided to take the afternoonoff.

Ronan

On our way.

“Crap,” I curse, holding the blanket to me as I get up from the sofa. “I need to jump in the shower before they get here.”

Uncaring that his package is now on full display, already semi-hard, Lucian follows me up. “I could join you. Help speed things up by washing your back.” He wags his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ha. Yeah.Speed things up.”

Shaking my head, I leave him to get dressed as I hurry into the shower.

I make it back into the living room just as there is a knock at the door.

“Did we interrupt something?” Ronan asks with a knowing smirk, taking in my damp hair. Not answering him, I step aside so they can enter the apartment.

“You good?” he asks when he spots Lucian, giving him a concerned once-over.

Lucian nods once. “Yeah.”

Silas gives him a long stare before turning his attention to me, seeming to ask the same question as Ronan.

“We’re fine,” I reassure them both. “It was a shitty class, but we’re okay now.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick with things unsaid, but then Silas kicks off his shoes and drops onto the floor in front of a bucket chair as if it’s an everyday habit. Ronan does a slow walk around my apartment, taking everything in. His gaze drags over the pristine white walls, the sleek, minimalist furniture, the expensive art prints hung in perfect symmetry.

“Nice place,” he says eventually, hands in his pockets as heeyes the framed abstract piece over the TV. “Although it doesn’t really feel like you.”

I blink, startled. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, but there’s intent behind the movement. “It’s just…kinda sterile. Polished. Like a realtor staged it.”

“It was decorated by my mother,” I admit with a sigh, returning to the sofa and curling my legs beneath me. “Her tastes and mine don’t quite…align.”

Cocking my head, I question, “Whatisme?”

He grins, his expression challenging. “Color. Texture. Chaos.”