Chapter 13 Ian
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IAN
Holy shit, did I know what relaxation was before today? I check my watch to make sure I didn’t accidentally sleep for three days straight, and nope, I didn’t. I just slept like a damn rock. Or a boulder.
Hell, I don't even remember coming back in last night.
Hold up. The last thing I remember before passing out was chilling with Callum on the couch, and now I'm here.
I'm here in bed, it’s past noon, and I'm tangled up in my comforter and my desk blanket. There's no way I would have thought to carry that to bed, which means…
Did Callum tuck me in?
Oh my god, he totally did.
And oh my god, my stomach flips like heck. It isn’t every day that I let someone take care of me, and I would never ask, but I was asleep. He did it anyway.
I think I’m in love. In a platonic way, of course, especially after he all but confirmed, again, that he isn't into men. Not that it was any surprise, but hey, that confirmation is stabilizing, and now I can go back to doing what I was before I met him.
Which is essentially condemning myself to celibacy until my sensitive, battered nerves recover from the last few guys who objectively didn't do anything that terrible.
Ugh.
I roll over to check my phone, and then I feel it in my pocket. Figures. I pull it out to plug it in, and—
There's a glass of water on the nightstand.
Callum gave me water.
Oh my fuck, he gave me water! He thought about me!
Okay, calm down. It's just water.
But he cared enough to get a glass, fill it up, and put it on my nightstand, all after physically carrying me to bed when I passed out.
Like, I know it's only a glass of water. It means nothing serious. Other than that he cares. About me. And he did something for me.
Why am I getting so worked up about this?
I down the glass of water as a distraction. I'm not hungover, only super thirsty, and I heave my heavy body out of bed for a refill. It’s already past noon, so I should get moving, anyway. As usual, I don’t smell so great, so I strip my shirt off and head into the hallway.
The shower was running when I woke up, so I'll grab water in the kitchen—
I walk face-first into Callum.
“Shoot, sorry, man, I wasn’t…” I trail off as I take a step back, contending with the sight in front of me.
Paying attention. What I didn’t manage to say is what I’m doing now, because Callum is shirtless, too.
He’s shirtless and fucking breathtaking.
While it’s obvious to anyone who so much as looks in his general direction that he’s built like a tank, seeing his brawny frame without a shirt over top is something else.
Why is he allowed to be tall and stocky? And have chest hair when he's nineteen? Wait, no, I think he already turned twenty. I don't even know anymore.
Life is not fair. Life is not fair because it’s testing me. Constantly. With hot straight men, or rather, one singular, smoking hot straight man who fits my type for guys to a damn T.
Still, I haven’t failed a single test since ninth grade, and I won’t fail this one. In my mind, AP Calculus II is harder than not crushing on someone I literally can’t make a move on, so I scrounge up some willpower and snap my eyes up to the space between Callum’s eyebrows.
His eyes are too distracting for me to stare into them for real.
He's just another one of my friends who happens to be hot. Nick is athletic, funny, and attractive, but wanting him to fuck me would be like wanting my nonexistent brother to fuck me. Gross.
And yeah, I was kinda into Sabrina for a day before I knew she was lesbian, and now there's nothing but friendship between us.
Callum is like a tall, hairy Sabrina with a quieter sense of humor.
He has to be.
“Sorry, I forgot a shirt,” he mumbles. His cheeks are pink, probably from the shower, and he isn’t meeting my gaze.
That’s for the best—that way he can’t catch me staring at his plush, parted lips.
I shrug. “Don't worry about it. You're good.”
You're good to never, ever wear a shirt in this house again. Burn them all.
Jesus, that's so sleazy. Poor Callum.
“No bruises or anything?” I ask jokingly. “I crashed into you pretty hard.”
“Nah,” he says. “All good. I thought you were asleep.”
“I was until a minute ago.” I hold up my empty water glass. “But I needed some water.”
Silence falls between us, and it drags out into uncomfortable, awkward territory, amplified by the fact that we’re both half-naked.
“So, about last night,” I start, but Callum interjects before I can finish my sentence.
“Yeah. I don’t want things to change between us because of what you told me.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Oh, that’s not what I was trying to get at.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Nah,” I reply, waving him off. “I just wanted to say thanks for carrying my dumb ass to bed.”
His eyes widen, and a little smile materializes at one corner of his mouth.
Is he trying to be sexy? There’s no way he knows that I go weak for an uneven grin.
He’s not trying to be sexy. He simply is, and that’s ten times worse for me.
“No problem,” he says. “It was the least I could do.”
“Right, yeah. I still appreciate it, though.” Shoot, I’m rambling. “And about the other thing you mentioned, uh, so we’re clear, just because I’m bi doesn’t mean I’m gonna be all thirsty for you. We’re still bros.”
I might not be thirsty over him, but there’s no way I can deny finding him attractive.
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” Callum says.
“I’ll drink to that.” I raise my glass, and what do I do next? I press it straight into his sternum. Like, that physique deserves a toast, but I’m out of line to be the one to give it.
He blinks, and his face flushes even more. So do his neck and chest. Holy, that's as close to crimson as I've ever seen anyone, and a pit drops in my stomach. Despite what we both said, I need to be more careful about how I act around him.
I can salvage this. But how?
By bro-ing it up. That’s how.
“Yup, gotta toast those gains, man,” I say, forcing nerves away from my throat and back into my stomach. “I’m an athlete, and you’re seriously giving me a run for my money.”
“Oh. Well, you have nice abs,” he blurts out.
Huh, he’s joining in, too. Fun!
My brain goes right to locker room talk. “I guess I do, man,” I say, smiling and running my palm over said abs. “But why’d you say that? Wanna cop a feel or something?”
Gritting my teeth, I hold my breath. He’s finally getting comfortable enough around me, and that dude-flirting might have set us back—
Callum’s hand is on my stomach. Callum’s hand is on my fucking stomach. His fingers are heavy, his touch is so light, and the tingles that combo sends throughout my body are unparalleled. Prickly, tense, amazing heat floods my synapses and makes my heart fucking race.
Do not make this weirder than it already is.
And don’t get hard.
“Bro, are you gonna go any lower?” It comes out as a joke, even though an annoying part of me still hopes that he’ll actually surprise me and go ahead.
Instead, he snorts and gives me a gentle punch on the stomach. “I wouldn't dream of it. Bro.”
Oh, shit! Callum called me bro. I’m a bro to him, and I break into a stupid smile.
We’re bros. I mean, we already were, but he called me that!
“Alright, buddy. Put a shirt on and stop tempting me,” I joke, returning his shoulder slap.
He shuffles away without another word, and I grab the water I originally came out here for. Callum’s closed the makeshift living room door when I’m done, so I go back to bed and scroll social media for a while.
I know how to live with straight-man disappointment. Looking on the bright side, Callum and I are still friends, and we both don’t want anything to change. He’s cool with me being bi, and that, in the grand scheme of things, is ideal.
Ideal isn’t perfect, but I can’t change reality to fit my own selfish wants. That’s just the way things are.