Page 17 of Run Home

“This is—wow,” I finally say.

He looks sheepish as he says, “Yeah, the realtor told me I’d have to paint it all back to neutral colors before I sell. It’s a lot.”

Turning to face him, I clarify, “No, I love it. Everything about it. It’s so . . . alive.”

Adrian shrugs with an uncharacteristically pensive expression. “It’s my little slice of home.”

The nostalgia tinged with pain in his eyes surprises me, considering Adrian’s happy-go-lucky norm. I can tell by the way his lips tug to one side that he’s uncomfortable with the current emotional vibe, so I lighten the mood for him. “Honestly, I think you should copy paste this to your boring living room,” I state. Adrian turns sharply to me, as though looking for sarcasm in my face. Recognizing my sincerity, his smile renews.

“You think so?” he muses, and I nod.

“And I was surprised by your room decor because I know the amount of black that will be in your closet,” I jest, and Adrian laughs as he passes the attached bathroom and opens one of two identical doors. It opens to a walk-in closet that’s impressively organized. One whole wall is taken up with fully stocked cubbies for shoes and hats, and the clothing is sorted by occasion and color—lots of black. There’s a cutout in one wall for a jewelry organizer containing multiple styles of gold chains and sunglasses.

Once again, I have to pause to take it all in. “I never would have pegged you for being this organized,” I tell Adrian.

He cocks his head to one side. “Why not?”

“No real reason. Just seems different than your more playful personality,” I say.

He tsks. “My papá always taught me how important it was to take care of our stuff. Granted, it’s even more important when you don’t have much. I figure nice stuff deserves care too. But you’re wasting a lot of time gawking around when you’re supposed to be on the hunt for dad clothes.”

“Do you have more clothes in the other closet?” I ask. At least, I assume the other door is a second—the size of the house would certainly indicate a double-closet situation in the primary bedroom.

“Nope. It’s empty,” Adrian says.

Raising my eyebrows, I clarify, “Empty? You’re not using it as overflow space?”

Adrian holds my gaze as he says, “The bedroom is built for two people. The second closet is reserved.”

For a split second, his deep brown eyes look warmer, almost molten—like the gooey, melted chocolate bar sandwiched in a s’more. The look disappears when he blinks, replaced by a typical flash of amusement as he says, “I mean, what would that say about me if I couldn’t contain all my stuff in one massive walk-in closet? I think you’d call me self-absorbed for real.”

My laugh is high-pitched, breathier than normal. I shake my head again, an Etch A Sketch erasing the image of the heat in Adrian’s eyes.

“Okay, I’m going to look through your shirts—you find your least trendy pair of jeans,” I order him, turning my attention to the upper rack of shirts along one wall. The hangers slide as Adrian sifts through the pants behind me, and I take the opportunity to close my eyes and breathe deeply.

Why are you acting so weird today? Pull yourself together and stop getting flustered by Adrian being Adrian.

“What about these?” Adrian asks, holding up a pair of medium-wash jeans when I turn to look.

“Acceptable. Your shirts, on the other hand, are absolutely not suburban-dad style. How do you not have a single uncool thing in this closet that isn’t branded with a Crowns logo?” I huff, more aggressively shifting hangers side to side. “Everything has embellishment stitching or pattern details or unique textures. Where are the plain polos?”

Adrian’s laugh moves closer to my ear as he shifts to stand behind me. He reaches up to touch a pale gray golf polo at the same time I do. I yank back my hand, and he says, “I wore this to a golf tournament as part of a team scramble. Is it boring enough?”

“It’s gonna have to work,” I say.

Adrian smirks as he replies, “Looks like I should have made you guess the password after all, considering I picked my own outfit. You were no help at all.”

He breaks out in laughter when I backhand his chest. He takes the clothes and leaves to change in the bathroom. I rifle through his hat display for the plainest one, settling on a simple black Nike hat with no eye-catching designs.

“What do you think?” Adrian calls behind me, and I turn to see him strutting through the closet like a runway model.

“Lose the catwalk, and you look almost boring enough to blend in,” I tease. “But you’re gonna need to cover up those signature curls. This hat should do the job—it’s not too flashy.”

Adrian takes the hat from my hands and settles it on his head, but his curls are too long to be fully covered. The ends poke out the bottom of the hat, just like when he’s in his Crowns uniform and ball cap.

“Hold on—you need a better camouflage job,” I say, reaching toward his hair. I remove the hat and run my fingers through the curls at the base of his skull. Adrian stiffens, and I pull my hand back. “Sorry, did my fingernails scratch you?”

“No, sorry. It’s fine. You’re fine,” Adrian says.