I’m Not Blushing, You’re Blushing

The next day, it all starts with a damp towel.

Not mine, HIS.

It's slung over the bathroom door, trailing moisture down the wood, and it smells like eucalyptus body wash and expensive bad decisions.

I squint at it like it personally offended me.

Because, well, it did, everything he does or that relates to him offends me on a transcendental level.

Alex has been living here for a week and has already colonized the upstairs bathroom like it's his territory. My territory. The one place I could sulk in peace and not think about biceps and brooding eyes and whatever that thing is he does where his voice drops half an octave when he says good morning.

I yank the towel off the door, open my room, and storm out—straight into him.

Tank top. Damp hair. Barefoot. Holding a toothbrush like he's starring in an early 2000s teen soap.

"Bathroom occupied?" he asks, completely unfazed by our close proximity or the murder in my eyes.

"Firstly, watch where you're... standing for goodness sake", I say as I hold up the towel like it's Exhibit A. "I am sure this is your wonderful idea of marking your territory?"

He shrugs. "Didn't realize you were territorial about terrycloth."

I don't dignify that with a response. I shove the towel into his chest—firm, muscley, unfairly warm—and pivot toward the kitchen like the hallway, or rather the thing in it, didn't just ruin my entire morning.

He strolls in a few minutes later, still barefoot, now drinking coffee like this is his house and not my personal hellscape. I'm at the counter, trying to butter toast—which he was apparently ever so kind to actually leave the last one for me for once—without slicing the bread in half out of spite.

"You sleep okay?" he asks, voice way too casual.

"I know I asked this yesterday, but do you own a shirt with sleeves?" I mumble, not even turning to look at him.

He stretches like he's on a yoga retreat. "Uhm, yeah, this is a shirt."

"Nope, once again, that's a strip of cotton with arm holes."

He smirks around the rim of his mug and leaves without another word—like he didn't just ruin my morning twice.

By the third period of school, I'm still annoyed.

Still picturing his smirk. Still thinking about the way he blocked the hallway like a Calvin Klein ad. Still mad that I noticed how nice his collarbone looks when he stretches.

I barely make it through math class without snapping my pencil in half. Ms. Patricia calls on me twice, and both times I say "two" like it's the answer to everything. (It is not.)

Lunch.

Camila finds me sulking at our usual spot near the back tables. She slides in across from me like a well-dressed shark who smells blood in the water.

"You look emotionally bruised, a least more emotionally bruised than usual", she says, biting into an apple. "Let me guess, the sexy hunk also known as Alejandro Torres is the cause of this mood you have going on right now?"

I grunt.

"That's a yes."

"Can we talk about literally anything else?" I say

"Nope. Not when you look like someone hit you with a wet dream and then walked away whistling."

I drop my head onto the table. "He left his towel on the bathroom door."

"Scandalous."

"And then blocked the hallway. And then made coffee. Barefoot."

Camila gasps like she's watching a drama. "The horror."

I glare at her. "This isn't funny."

"It is exactly funny, oh my gosh, you're making such a big thing out of like basically nothing", she says. "Nick, you are in the middle of a slow-burn situationship and I, for one, am thriving."

"I hope he gets athlete's foot."

She sips her drink like she's watching a soap opera. "I hope he kisses you."

"What the hell, Camila?!" I say almost shouting, my voice tells of disgust, but the blush on my face denies me flat.

She looks at me a if she's watching a high school drama, "Oh my gosh, you're so blushing", she says, almost laughing.

"Blushing? I'm not blushing, you're blushing"