Page 57 of Arrogant Puck

She runs to the dresser like a kid in a candy store, opening drawers at random. The first one contains towels, thankfully. But the next one reveals rope, blindfolds, and other toys that make her eyes go wide.

“That’s enough,” I say, moving to close the drawer.

“It’s not.” Her eyes are practically sparkling now. “You’re...”

“What? Sick? Perverted?” I brace myself for the judgment, the disgust, the inevitable retreat.

“No, Slater. That’s not what I was going to say. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

I can think of other things to put in your mouth.But I don’t say it. Just think it and try to keep my expression neutral as I glance at her lips.

She grabs the blindfold from the drawer, hesitating. “Is there a reason why you have this?”

“What do you mean?” I ask

She walks over and stares straight into my soul. “I mean is this a sick joke?”

I shake my head.

“Are you friends with Tyler?”

“Tyler?” I ask, officially tasting the name of her asshole ex. “Why the fuck would I know Tyler?”

She clutches her head. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. It’s just…” She waves her hand, putting the blindfold back.

“This isn’t where you were trying to take me, was it?”

I shake my head.

I take her hand and lead her to my actual bedroom. The space that holds everything I am—hockey jerseys framed on the walls, trophies lined up like soldiers, and in the center of it all, the fake Stanley Cup that Archer and I made when we were kids. We’d gotten into manifesting that year, convinced we could bring our dreams into existence if we just believed hard enough.

“Black everything,” she observes.

“Like my soul.”

She turns to look at me, and her expression is serious now. “I don’t believe that.”

The words make every thought leave my head. I’m speechless, overwhelmed by how much her faith in me means. She sees something in me that I’m not sure actually exists, but maybe there’s some hope for me after all.

“Silk blankets. So bougie.” She runs her hand over the comforter. “You must have more trophies than this.”

I can’t help but smile at her assumption. “I do, but these mean the most to me.”

Her attention is caught by the photos on my dresser, and she points to one in particular. “Because of him?”

The room goes silent. Even my heartbeat seems to pause. Does she know about him?

“He’s your twin.” She smiles, and it’s warm and genuine. “Same smile. Maybe a year younger? But still close in age. Two handsome brothers.”

My heart does that crushing thing it always does whenever Archer is mentioned, but for some reason, right now, it’s not as heavy. Her compliment means more to me than she’ll ever know. I don’t share images of my brother with anyone. Hell, I don’t let anyone in this room, period. I have to fight the urge to rush her out, to protect this space from contamination. But I did just offer to have her live here. I willingly brought her in here knowing what it means. I take a deep breath, watching her survey the rest of the room.

“So, is this where I’ll sleep?” she asks, flopping onto my bed like a child. “In silk?”

The photo of Archer is haunting me, but I try to shake it off. “Only if you want to.”

“Want to?” She closes her eyes and sinks into the mattress. “Oh my god. This is a dream. This can’t be good for your hips. Oh, your hips. Do you need some PT?”

I shake my head, too distracted by the sight of her on my bed to think about physical therapy. Her presence in my room, in my space, is both calming and addicting. She looks like she belongs here, and that thought terrifies me.

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