Wearing a towel. And only a towel.
Low-slung. Damp. Droplets clinging to his tattooed chest.
“Shit,” I gasp, jerking upright—and promptly tripping over the laundry basket at my feet.
I go down like a folding chair. Socks scatter. The basket flips. My dignity dies a little.
Grayson blinks. “You good?” he asks, like this is a perfectly normal Tuesday morning thing.
I flop onto my back and squint up at the ceiling. “Your towel just attacked me.”
He raises a brow. “Technically, you attacked the floor.”
I groan, scrambling upright, dragging laundry around me like a blanket of shame.
Grayson steps forward, bending to grab a T-shirt from the dryer—and the motion is too much.
The towel slips.
Hits the floor like it’s part of the show.
I make a strangled sound and throw a shirt over my face. “Oh myGod.”
But not before I seeeverything.
Lean hips. Ridges of muscle that make no anatomical sense. V-lines so sharp they should come with a warning label. And yeah—I catch a flash of what’sunderneaththe towel.
It’s… generous. And unfair. And now permanently etched into my brain like a screensaver I never asked for.
Grayson doesn’t even flinch. Just casually picks up the towel and tucks it back around his waist.
I peek out from between the sleeves. “Are you always this calm when mostly naked?”
“I’m not mostly,” he says, grabbing clean boxers from the basket without shame.
I narrow my eyes. “You did that on purpose.”
He finally looks at me—smirk low and dangerous. Eyes dragging down my laundry-day outfit like it’s his turn to assessme.
“You think this is the first time someone’s fallen at my feet in here?”
I merely stare at him.
He doesn’t even flinch.
* * *
Later, back upstairs and very much still emotionally off-balance,I grab my phone—and accidentally open a group thread I don’t remember joining.
HOUSE OF HOCKEY HUNKS
Caleb:Mirror check or it doesn’t count
Hunter:I’m not sending you shirtless pics, Ward
Caleb:You say that like you don’t already have them in your camera roll
Grayson:[Image]