Page 129 of Built to Fall
Eden hands me the bag I usually take over there when I spend the night. “It’s going to be great! Havesomuch fun!”
“We’ll see.”
I’m trying to be more excited than nervous, but this situation is quite unconventional within itself—asking your friend to give you an orgasm like it’s a favor.
Still, I walk out my front door and down the hall toward his like it’s just another day. This is routine, after all.
I text him when I’m outside.
ME
I’m here.
GRANT
Door’s open.
Of course it is.
I wonder what it feels like to be a man, never afraid of leaving your door unlocked.
“Hey,” I call as I walk through the entryway. I don’t sound as confident as I’d like.
Grant steps into the doorway of the kitchen. “Hey. Are you staying the night?”
I hold up my bag. I don’t have to ask if that’s okay, because I know it is.
“Want to eat?” he asks, directing me into the kitchen.
Our apartments are set up almost identically. Grant’s is a bit bigger because he has a corner unit, making room for a breakfast nook. I take a seat at the island barstool after tossing my bag into his room like I would in my own apartment.
“What are you making?”
“Nothing special; just pizza.” He opens the oven, pulling the pan out and setting it on the stovetop.
In all honesty, the guys’ apartment always looks a lot cleaner than ours does. Not because our apartment isdirty,but because we live in organized chaos.
There’s always something strewn about—half-read books on the coffee table, mugs with lipstick stains on the rim, a forgotten throw blanket draped over a chair. Our fridge is covered in pink sticky notes and passive-aggressive reminders scribbled in Sharpie.
It’s the kind of place where it always smells like vanilla and girl shampoo, where someone’s playlist is always softly buzzing from a speaker tucked behind a plant, and where everything feelslived in. Chaotic, sure, but it’s ours.
Grant’s, in comparison, feels too neat. Their barstools are aligned. Their counter is clear. It smells like detergent with an undertone of cologne. It feels pristine but also boring in comparison.
“Yeah, why not?”
My mouth waters not only at the smell of pizza but also at the way Grant’s forearm flexes when he pushes the pizza cutter across the pan in one fluid motion.
He plates two pieces for me and four for himself before sliding the plate across the countertop.
“So,” I say, picking up the first piece and pausing to take a bite. “There’s a reason I came over here tonight.”
Grant quirks a brow, sliding the pizza cutter back onto the stovetop.
“Yeah?” he says, voice casual, but there’s a spark of interest in his eyes now.
I nod, my fingers tracing the edge of my plate like it might steady me. “Mhm.”
He leans in slightly, resting his elbows on the counter between us. “To sleep, I presume?” he teases, his tone light but careful, like he’s giving me an out if I want one.
