Page 112 of I Think They Love You

His phone vibrates on the nightstand. He checks his notifications. Six texts from Jamie, two from Nic, and another hundred or so from social media. He’s hungover, a pounding headache trying to crack his skull in half. Denz doesn’t have the energy to explain to his best friend why the hell he didn’t sleep in his own bed last night.

Instead, he scrolls through social media.

It’s the usual. Followers tagging him in photos, DMs about promotional opportunities he’ll respond to later, and comments galore. People are still obsessively liking the Valentine’s Day post. It’s up to fifty thousand likes. No one knows who the mystery man is yet.

He stifles a laugh as he reads their theories.

Behind him, Braylon snores quietly.

Denz takes in the moment. Their bare feet poking from underneath the rumpled bedspread. Braylon’s hand resting on Denz’s naked hip. He snuffles and exhales into one of the hotel’s expensive pillows. It should all be so weird—having a man in bed with him after years of ducking out the second the condom’s off—but it’s not.

It’s oddly comfy.

He knows in his core that, at any second, the bubble could burst. It’sgoing toburst. That’s how these things work.

But not yet.

A ridiculous idea crosses his mind. He edges down the cover. Wiggles backward in Braylon’s direction. Rolls painstakingly slowly onto his back before opening his front-facing camera. He holds the phone high.

From this horrible angle, Denz is bleary-eyed, face unshaven, hair wrecked from Braylon’s hands. He can’t tell if that’s lube orsomething elsetacky against his chest. Braylon’s equally unkempt, a deep pillow crease in his cheek, but he still manages to look angelic.

Denz can’t stand him.

He adjusts the view until everything except for Braylon’s arm is cut from the frame. An acceptable post-sex, morning selfie.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Braylon grumbles, then yawns, “could you please do it a bit quieter? My head’s pounding and I might puke all over you.”

“Wow. Charming.”

“It’s what I excel at.” Braylon yawns again, louder. “Charm and getting absolutelywreckedover two drinks.”

“Lightweight.”

“Your mother.”

Denz gasps, fake affronted. Braylon laughs into his shoulder. The heat, the closeness, the soft hair on Braylon’s chest grazing his bicep, makes Denz acutely aware of his morning wood.

Why is his body like this?

With one eye open, Braylon squints at him. “Are you taking a selfie?”

“No. Yes. Maybe?”

“Of us?”

“No,” Denz sputters. “I wouldn’t do that without your consent. It’s just me… and your arm? No face.”

“And did you get myarm’sconsent?”

Humiliation heats up Denz’s skin. Braylon snorts, pressing his nose to the tendons between Denz’s neck and shoulder. “Here. Let me.”

“You don’t have t—”

“Gimme.”

They fumble the exchange. Denz almost suffersanotherphone to his face, but Braylon catches it midair. His wingspan is greater—fucking six-one giant—so he reaches above them. Heblindly snaps off a few photos with his face hiding in the crook of Denz’s neck. Something ripples in his stomach when Braylon’s lips brush under his jaw.

He examines Braylon’s work. “These are terrible.”

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