Midnight Muse

“Right,” I answer rather awkwardly, because now all I’m thinking about is being in Knox’s room with him and what his bed must be like and how he— “Thank you again for dinner, Knox. And the ride.” I inch towards Slate’s room even if the urge to get a glimpse of the real Knox is tempting.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Princess.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Not a chance.”

I shut the door to Slate’s room with a frustrated noise that puts the affable night to rest.

CHAPTER 14

QUINN

The ceiling has never been more interesting.

I say this because I’m currently laying in Slate’s bed, staring at the ceiling, and have been for the past four hours.

I’m avoiding the inevitable, which is seeing Knox again.

Another night of no sleep. I should be used to it by now, and where I’m normally all achy bones and gritty eyes, this morning is different. I’m wired—restless.

It’s not Knox’s fault that I hadn’t been able to sleep this time. Not intentionally, at least. He wasn’t blasting music on his side of the wall—which, Slate also shares, so he must be able to sleep through a zombie apocalypse if Knox’s loud metal playlist doesn’t bother him while he’s sleeping—but I couldn’t rest because he was just simply there, existing in the room next door.

My mind wouldn’t allow me to stop thinking about him over there. If he found it as difficult to fall asleep as I was. If the thought of what I was sleeping in was as vivid in his head as it was in mine.

Did he go to sleep in those sweatpants? His boxers? Or briefs? I’m not judging, just making an educated guess because of the boxers he gave me to wear for the night. Unless they’re Slate’s or Ace’s, but why would he give me one of their pairs without asking? That seems rude. They have to be his.

Jesus, Quinn, look at what you’ve become.

Anxiousness weighs heavily on my body as I slip from the bed, looking around the room with the sun peeking its head through the windows. Slate’s room is utterly Slate. His bed dons ocean colored bedding, matching comforter and all. I thought that he might have something a little quirkier, like cowboys or even a plaid pattern, but then I remember just how much Slate likes bringing ladies here, and I figure they wouldn’t want to have sex on bed sheets that scream Wild Wild West.

Whatever happened to saving a cowboy and all that?

He doesn’t have much in terms of furniture. There’s a tall dresser next to the door with clothes spilling out of the drawers as if he’s rifled through them in a rush like a raccoon through a garbage can. He has a desk but I don’t think the surface of it has seen the light of day in years with how much crap is piled on top of it. I don’t know how it’s possible that Slate has accumulated this many things in the matter of weeks since the semester started, or if he hasn’t cleaned it off in the entire time he’s lived here.

There’s a photo placed on the table beside the bed and I pick it up, admiring the three roommates, arms around each other. They’re dressed in their usual attire, Slate in his low-cut jeans, showing off the deep lines of muscle pointing straight to his crotch. In the photo, he’s wearing a jersey of some sort, cropped above his navel. The bottom of the number 15 is cut off and I think it might be a Terrapin’s rugby jersey, not that I know too much about the sport nor what they wear.

Ace is wearing a pair of slacks and a t-shirt tucked into the waistband of them. He looks like he’s just rolled out of a mob fight with his unruly blond hair. There’s a single strand that hangs down in front of his mischievous ocean eyes and I actually think he looks kind of cute here.

Go Rory.

Knox looks exactly the same as last night, with a little less muscle. It has me wondering how old this photograph is. Maybe they had taken it on their first day of college at Vulcan University. He’s dressed in all black, with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head as if he’s trying to hide from something. His cheeks are swept with pink and his hands are stuffed deeply into the pockets of his hoodie, but the white that peeks out from the bunched-up sleeves has me squinting, trying to get a closer look.

They’re bandages, I realize, wrapped tightly around his forearms and my stomach rolls.

This picture was taken around the time of whatever happened to his hands.

A noise from outside of the door startles me. It’s coming from the kitchen, and the sick feeling doesn’t lessen when I figure out that it’s probably Knox, and that he’s probably making noise because he wants me to get the fuck out of his apartment.

I find a mirror leaning against the wall behind the door and assess myself. I don’t look much different than I had last night. My hair is messy, but at least I don’t have mascara streaming down my face anymore. The tired lines of my features show, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do about that.

I’m sure Slate has a brush around here somewhere but I rake my fingers through my hair quickly before stepping out of the room.

Slate’s bedroom opens directly into the kitchen and once again, I’m met with a delicious smell. It’s sweet, like overloaded sugary breakfasts usually are. Knox stands, his back to me, at the stove as he flips a pancake.

He doesn’t even glance over his bare shoulder as he greets me. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I echo, tentatively working my way into the room. My clothes are folded on one of the stools where I left them last night, and I really should just snatch them up and run the fuck right out of this apartment before I have to endure a truly awkward breakfast that screams ‘morning after’ despite the dislike we share for each other.