I'm still in my pajamas, fixing coffee and tea, when Brendon knocks on the door.

"Hey." His steady voice flows through the wood.

"Give me a minute." I've worn this exact outfit at his place a hundred times. But right now it feels too revealing, too personal.

I move to my room, grab the outfit I laid out last night. High-waisted shorts and a v-neck t-shirt. Cute. Flattering. Practical.

I change as quickly as I can, dart back to the door, pull it open. "Hey."

Light surrounds him like a halo. It casts highlights over his dark hair and his strong shoulders.

God, his shoulders are bare.

He's wearing a muscle tank and shorts. It would look douchey on anyone else. On Brendon, it screams trace all the lines of the ink running down my shoulders. Don't you want these arms around you? Don't you want every bit of everything I have to give?

I can't have that.

I can't have a single bit of it.

It would kill Emma.

Even if it wouldn't, Brendon doesn't want someone broken. He ends all his "relationships" when things get complicated.

He nods to the boxes sitting in the living room. "I'll start loading."

I motion to the carafe on the counter. "Coffee first?"

"Coffee after."

"As long as I can have tea first."

"I'd never deprive you."

He's talking about tea, but my body doesn't catch the nuance.

My skin tingles. My stomach flutters. Heat spreads down my torso, collecting at the apex of my thighs.

I allow myself a moment to gawk as he picks up the first box and carries it to his car. Okay, then the second.

He shoots me an are you going to watch or help look.

I make my way to my bedroom and finish my last bits of packing. It's just clothes now. I have a lot of them. Nothing compared to Emma, but when my entire bed is covered with a quarter of my wardrobe...

Maybe I have a problem.

I pack my last set of dresses. Then all the toiletries I left out for this morning. I do one last wipe down of the bathroom, so everything is pretty and pristine.

Now, it's just my...

Oh God.

Brendon is in my doorframe, his eyes on my bed. Not just on the Little Mermaid comforter, but on the collection of underwear on top of it.

It wouldn't be so bad if I owned anything remotely sexy. But that's all cotton and comfort bras.

Not what I want him imagining when he...

No.

It doesn't matter.

Brendon doesn't look at me that way.

I think.

He's not saying anything.

I'm not saying anything.

We're just standing in this room with my underwear on display, saying nothing.

His gaze moves to the walls. "I'm sorry I missed seeing it in its glory."

"Huh?"

He nods to the bare walls.

"Oh." He's never been in my room. With the way my heart is pounding and my body is buzzing, it makes perfect sense. He's here. My bed is there. It would be so easy to combine those two things. "I'm going to attempt to recreate the majesty at your place."

"Our place."

"Our place." It feels funny on my tongue, but I will get used to it. The house in Venice Beach isn't Brendon and Emma's place. It's our place. My place.

I live with Brendon.

I live with the guy who refuses to leave my head.

I can handle that. Totally.

He nods to the bedside drawer. "I can make myself scarce if you need to pack anything personal."

"Why would I..." Oh. My blush spreads to my chest. I stammer. "No. I don't. I don't have one of those."

He arches a brow. Teasing. Maybe.

"No. But. Um." I'm going to die of embarrassment. "I don't use those."

"You're missing out."

"What?" I manage to look at him for an entire second. Two even. His expression is light, but there's curiosity in his eyes. He really wants to know. "Why do you care?"

He shrugs. "You should get one."

"Oh." This is... My head is spinning.

I can't place his tone.

Is it you should get one so I can use it on you?

Or is it masturbation is healthy and awesome, you should get a vibrator awkward but necessary mentor/Dad/older brother talk?

I...

Uh...

My body goes straight to the former.

I can't think.

The only thing in my head is the glorious mental image of him peeling off my panties and pressing a vibe to my clit.

Fuck.

We're going to live together. We're going to be roommates. Or even... it's more like he's my legal guardian.

He doesn't see me that way.

We're friends.

We're only ever going to be friends.

I need to act like this is normal. Like we're two adults talking about sex toys like adults do. "I thought guys were bothered by—" I can say the word. "Vibrators."

"In your vast experience?"

"Yeah." Okay, so I've never exactly had a guy over here. I've never had a guy's hands below my waist. Or mine below his. But I listen in class, at work, at the shop. I've heard guys talk about sex toys like they were only for desperate women.

"It's a tool. That's it."

"And that doesn't threaten you?"

"No."

"You're that... confident?"

He gives me a long once over. His eyes settle on mine. "We're not having his conversation."

"You brought it up."

"Even so."

There's something in his eyes.

An awkwardness I don't recognize.

Because he sees me as a sister?

Or because he's desperate to use a vibrator on me?

* * *

It takes the entire morning to unpack my stuff. The room—my room—has a desk but it's lacking most of the other furniture I need.

We get lunch at the taco place down the street, make plans to get furniture tomorrow, argue about who is going to stay in the master bedroom until we get my bed. I insist he stays in his room. He insists the couch.

Eventually, I break and agree. And it has nothing to do with how much I want to be in his bed, wrapped up in sheets that smell of him.

It's not like that's the only reason why I relent.

Not at all.

* * *

God, this really is amazing.

I fall back onto Brendon's four poster bed.

I sink into the smooth sheets.

They smell like him. Like his earthy soap and like something distinctly Brendon.

God, they smell good.

I let my eyelids flutter closed and let my head fill with dirty thoughts.

Him next to me.

Pulling my t-shirt over my head.

Unhooking my bra.

Sliding it off my shoulders.

Dragging his fingertips up my torso, between my breasts, around my nipples.

Pressing his lips to mine.

He thinks I'm sweet. Innocent.

Everyone does.

And I am.

I'm a virgin, sure. But I'm not naïve.

I know what I want.

It's him.

A knock on the door pulls me back to the moment.

"I'm heading to work. You gonna be okay alone?" Brendon asks from the hallway.

He explained it at lunch—he and Emma have a strict knock, enter only if invited policy.

"Yeah. I have to get started on my summer reading."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I'll be fine."

"Promise."

"Brendon—"

"If you'll be fine, it will be an easy promise to keep."

It's a compelling argument. Even if I have no intentions of calling him. No matter what I need. "Okay. I promise."

"See you tonight."

"You too."

His footsteps move down the hallway. Then the stairs.

I can just barely hear the front door shut.

Emma is at work—she works at a department store at the promenade.

I'm alone here.

I've never been alone here before.

It's the perfect chance to work out some of this tension.

But not yet.

It sounds stupid, but I can't touch myself in the middle of the afternoon. That's so... intentional.

I only ever masturbate before bed. So it's for insomnia relief as much as anything else.

Still, I should take advantage of being alone in Brendon's room somehow.

Reading isn't quite as exciting or naughty as masturbating to thoughts of my new roommate slash guardian, but hey—

I do have dirty books on here.

I'm capable of fun. Of sexy. Of bad.

Just, I'm going to do it by myself in my pajamas.

I toss my sleep shorts on the bed.

Set my Kindle on the dresser.

Right next to the faded black sketchbook.

Wait.

That's Brendon's sketchbook.

It's right there.

I've never seen it by itself.

In his hands? Yeah.

On his lap? Absolutely.

Nestled under his arm? Of course.

It never leaves his sight.

And he snaps it fast whenever I get close.

This is it.

All the secrets to what's in that beautiful head of his.

His secrets.

None of my business.

I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap holding the pages together.

This is his.

It's private.

Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.

I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.

When he's alone, period.

God, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking.

This is wrong. What if it was your journal?

I force myself to set the book down.

To plant on the bed.

To cross my legs. Fold my hands. Keep my gaze on the floor.

I shouldn't look.

But this is the only chance I'm going to get.

If I don't look, I'll never get inside his head.

I'll never know what he's thinking.

I'll never know if he's thinking about me.

I place the book in my lap and pry it open. The first few pages are familiar tattoo mockups—Brendon always shows off his finished work. Or maybe I check the shop's Facebook religiously. Either way.

Then there are figure drawings. More tattoo mockups. A fierce dragon defending a castle. A giant octopus destroying a sea monster. A topless mermaid sunning on a rock.

A librarian pin up.

Only...

No.

She looks like me. Same champagne blond hair. Same green eyes. Same pretty pink cardigan. Same thick blue glasses. These aren't exactly standard frames.

And she's wearing a Mockingjay pin.

Exactly like the one attached to my backpack.

That's nothing. Lots of people like The Hunger Games. Even Brendon.

There's no way he's looking at me like this.

My heartbeat picks up.

My breath flees my body at an alarming rate.

I shouldn't turn the page, but I can't stop myself.

It's that same pin up, only her cardigan is unbuttoned. Her breasts are exposed.

In the next picture, she's lying on her back, her arms over her head, her cardigan binding her wrists.

The next.

That's me. Splayed out over this bed. Naked. Bound to the railing.

I turn the page.

Fuck.

I suck a deep breath between my teeth.

I press my thighs together.

I'm on my knees, resting on my heels, looking up.

Naked.

Waiting.

Hungry.

He wants me.

Brendon wants me.