Chapter six
Evan
Iwiped the kitchen counter for the third time, watching the cloth leave streaks that weren't there thirty seconds ago.
The kettle hummed on the stove, building toward a whistle. Color-coded and rolled into perfect cylinders, my socks sat in the laundry basket like tiny soldiers awaiting deployment. Everything in its place. Everything under control.
Except for the fact that I'd been awake since 4:47 a.m., mentally replaying the moment Jake Riley's thumb had brushed against my cheek.
I touched the spot where the cut was healing. Barely a scratch now, but my skin still remembered the pressure of his hand. He'd looked at me—seeing something that held his attention.
That was the problem.
I opened my laptop and created a new spreadsheet: "Home Operations v2." The cursor blinked at me. I added tabs: Noise Limits. Shared Zones. Refrigerator Etiquette: Revisited.
If I couldn't control my reaction to Jake Riley's hands, I could at least control the fridge.
The kettle shrieked. I poured water over my tea bag—English Breakfast, steeped for precisely four minutes—and tried to focus on the familiar ritual. Steam rose from the mug, perfuming the area with a rich scent that usually grounded me.
Not this morning. I continued to think about how Jake had said my name during practice. Quietly. Testing the sound of it.
I typed furiously into the spreadsheet:Personal items must be clearly labeled with owner, date, and intended consumption timeline.
The bathroom mirror had no surprises: bed hair tamed into submission, gray eyes that gave nothing away, and a thin red line across my cheekbone that might fade by tomorrow.
I touched it again.
"Get it together, Carter," I muttered to my reflection. Talking to myself. A little of Jake was starting to rub off.
Back in the kitchen, I added another line to the spreadsheet:Shared cooking equipment must be returned to designated storage areas immediately after use.
The cursor blinked.
I'd written policies for every possible household disruption except the one that mattered: what to do when your chaotic roommate looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
There wasn't a spreadsheet formula for that.
The apartment was too quiet. No off-key humming from the shower, and no cabinet doors slamming as Jake searched for whatever random item had captured his attention. He was still sleeping, not dropping things.
I saved the spreadsheet and closed the laptop.
Two hours later, Jake, the barely functional human being, shuffled into the kitchen with hair sticking up in six different directions and wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants.
He was humming. It wasn't a song. It was a shampoo commercial jingle I remembered from childhood, complete with the enthusiastic "So clean, so fresh, so you!" tagline.
I stared at my laptop screen and tried to focus on updating the Noise Limits tab.
"Morning, Roomie Supreme," Jake pulled out the milk carton and shook it. He grabbed one of my ceramic mixing bowls from the drying rack—the blue one with the hairline crack—and poured cereal into it.
Don't look at his collarbones. Don't notice how the morning light cuts across his shoulders or how he moves through the kitchen like he owns every square inch of space.
I couldn't follow my own advice.
Jake had built his body into a lean muscle mass, all clean lines and understated strength. A small scar ran along his ribs—probably from taking a puck to the side during some long-forgotten game. His sweatpants hung low enough that I saw the sharp cut of his hip bones, and—
"Evan? You okay, buddy? You look like you might be having a stroke."
I snapped my attention back to the laptop. "I'm fine. Working."
