S O P H I A H O N E Y

HOW DOES ONE ask for their bedsheets without dying of embarrassment?

After breakfast, with the teasing and the looks, I manage to escape the awkwardness of the morning, but I can't seem to shake the tension. Well, at least I think I did. Honestly, it's just me acting all weird-he hasn't even mentioned last night. Not a word. Like it never happened.

Maybe he's waiting for me to bring it up. Yeah, like that's going to happen. It's not even close to happening, ever.

I'm in my room, trying to clean up and distract myself from overthinking. I'm doing some organizing, sorting through the clutter, all while mentally preparing myself for the inevitable conversation with Theo about chores. Because I have to ask. And I can't ask for something like that without crawling into a hole and never coming out.

One thing I've noticed about Theo? He's ridiculously neat. I've never seen a guy take such pride in making sure everything is spotless.

At first, I thought it was just me being petty when I found his stuff scattered around the apartment-his boxers, random makeup (don't ask me why, I'm still pretending I didn't see it)-but lately, he doesn't leave that stuff lying around anymore. And honestly? I'm kind of relieved. Not that I was ever going to confront him about it. Who am I kidding?

Theo is, if nothing else, precise. He likes things neat. It's the only way he can function. It's strange to me because-well, because my family is the opposite. My dad and Ryan barely lift a finger around the house. They only clean up when Mum absolutely forces them to, and that usually means I'm left cooking while she tackles laundry on Sundays. It's a routine I'm used to, but Theo's different. He's got this whole "spick and span" thing down to a science. He wakes up early, does his thing, and the apartment is practically spotless by the time I even roll out of bed.

Except today. Today, I guess he couldn't wake up earlier because, you know... we were busy last night.

I glance at my dirty clothes, sitting in a pile in the corner. We share a brief staring contest. I lose. Miserably. With a sigh, I grab everything in one big swoop and stuff it into my laundry bag, preparing to head to the laundry room at the side of the apartment. It's small, but functional-just enough space to shove in my stuff and use the washing machine.

But... then there's the issue of the sheets.

I seriously don't know how I'm going to ask Theo about them. Those were my favorite sheets. The ones that I might've, uh, ruined last night. And just thinking about it? My face goes hot with embarrassment. How do you even ask someone for their dirty sheets without wanting to curl up and die? I can already feel the heat creeping up my neck just at the thought of it.

I'm seriously overthinking this.

Why am I constantly thinking about this?

We didn't even have sex, and here I am spiraling like some love-struck disaster. What happens if we actually do? Am I going to pack my things, hop on the next train, and change my name?

Probably.

God, I'm such a mess.

You know what? No. This isn't happening again. I've made up my mind. We were drunk. Okay, not that drunk-but still, drunk enough to blame it on the haze. And he looked like he needed someone in that moment. That's all it was.

Sure, he stole my first kiss-but you know what? It needed to be stolen. Now I can finally check that off the list and move on. Time to explore. Time to go places, flirt with boys, have some fun, and forget their faces by the next morning. Clean. Easy. Uncomplicated.

My mental pep talk gets cut off by the sound of the television. I freeze, blinking back into the real world. Theo must be in the living room. My stomach tightens, like it always seems to when he's nearby. I glance at the strange sheets currently on my bed-definitely not mine-and suddenly I have the perfect excuse.

Perfect. Cool. Chill.

I wrap the sheets up neatly, throw my mini laundry bag over my shoulder, and prepare for the embarrassing-but-necessary trek to the living room. I square my shoulders, take a breath, and walk out.

Okay, calm down. Just talk to him, get your sheets, and leave. Simple.

I enter the living room, and as soon as I do, my mouth goes dry."Oh... um, Theo, you forgot your-"

My words fizzle out like a dying sparkler.

I stop dead in my tracks, mouth slightly open, brain officially offline. I curse myself internally as I completely lose my train of thought. I'm staring-staring-and not at all being subtle about it.

I hear a man on the TV talking, something about a hockey match-probably some sports commentary. I've been to the rink enough times to recognize the terms being tossed around.

But my focus isn't on that.

No, my eyes are fixed on Theo, who's totally oblivious to me standing there like a creepy stalker, watching him as he vacuums the living room.

He's moving around the living room with a vacuum in hand, eyes flicking between the TV and the floor as he works. Focused. Efficient. And-dare I say it-sexy as hell.

I don't know where that word came from. Actually, I do. It came from the way his muscles flex under that black tank top. From the way his sweatpants hang just right on his hips. From the way his arms move as he pushes the vacuum back and forth like it personally offended him.

Theo Gray is one fine ass man.

And I need to stop thinking things like that. Right now.

But... holy hell.

I've completely lost track of time, of what I was supposed to be doing, and I'm just standing there, caught in this ridiculous trance.

My fingers tighten slightly around the bundled sheets in my hand, like they're the only thing anchoring me to Earth.

He still hasn't noticed me. Which is probably for the best, because I'm about two seconds away from combusting and turning into a cloud of awkward sexual tension.

I swallow, forcing my gaze away from the way his shoulders stretch the tank top fabric and down to the vacuum-normal. Focus on the vacuum. Harmless. Domestic.

God. Didn't I just say whatever was going on between us had to stop-like, seconds ago? And yet here I am, practically eye-fucking him without shame.

I clear my throat, loud enough to be noticed. His gaze flicks to me, then lingers-no, stares. Full-on, unapologetic stare.

For a second, I brace myself. Maybe he's going to tease me again about us accidentally matching outfits. But he doesn't. Instead, his eyes drop-to my hand.

"Is that..." He trails off then leans a little on the vacuum, arms crossed now. The position just emphasizes his biceps, which is totally unfair. There should be rules against looking like that in sweatpants.

"Is that my sheet?" he nods toward the bundle in my arms.

I blink, as if remembering what I came out here for. "Oh. Yeah. You left it on my bed. Figured you'd want it back."

He takes a slow step toward me, and my body goes stiff with attention-yes, attention, not tension, totally normal platonic attention.

Yes, totally normal.

"Didn't think you'd want yours back yet," he suddenly says and my cheeks heats up.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head a little to meet his gaze. His eyes linger on my face before flicking down to the sheet I'm holding, and I can practically feel the memory hanging between us like an invisible third person in the room.

"Well..." I clear my throat. "I do want it back. I have laundry."

He hums, like he's pretending to consider something, but mostly just enjoying watching me squirm. "You sure? Thought you were pretty attached to mine. You were curled up in it this morning."

"I thought they were mine." I deadpan, even though my voice comes out slightly strangled.

He smirks again, but says nothing. Just holds out a hand for the sheet.

I pass it to him and force myself to maintain eye contact-mistake number one, because now I'm staring into those warm, dark eyes and wondering if he always looked at me like that or if I'm just imagining it.

"Thanks," he says softly.

I nod. "Yeah. No problem."

An awkward beat. Then another. I shift my laundry bag higher on my hip.

"Well, I've got laundry to do," I say, lifting the bag slightly for emphasis, trying to remind myself that I'm still functioning in real life and not inside some slow-burn rom-com fantasy.

Theo nods slowly, lips twitching. "Right. Laundry. I need to clean anyway-"

I laugh. Like, actually laugh, loud and surprised. "What?" he asks, his brow lifting.

"Nothing," I say through my chuckle, shaking my head. "It's just... weird seeing a famous hockey player vacuuming like he's a suburban dad or something."

He shrugs, casually cool about it. "Don't see the big deal. I know people would probably think it's nothing."

"People might not," I agree, "but girls in college would definitely assume you have a maid or-like-some hot European housekeeper who does this for you in slow motion."

Theo smirks, his eyes narrowing with amusement. He lets out a breathy chuckle, then rakes a hand through his already-messy hair. "You just gave me an idea."

"Oh no," I say, instantly suspicious.

He walks back to the vacuum, grips it by the handle, and lifts it a little like he's about to pose. "How about you take a picture of me with the vacuum, shirtless, and post it?"

I nearly choke on my own saliva. "W-what?"

He grins, so damn smug. "I thought we were still doing the deal. Don't you need the money anymore?"

"I do but-"

"Nothing," he cuts in, flashing a wink, already enjoying the blush spreading across my face like wildfire. "C'mon, you post that and boom-instant viral sensation. 'Theo Gray: Hockey Star, Clean Freak, Certified Thirst Trap.'"

"Oh, it'll definitely be a thirst trap alright," I mumble, trying to play it cool but completely failing.

But with the image I'm having right now-Theo shirtless, flexing casually with a vacuum in hand-it's probably for the best if someone else takes that picture. Someone who won't have a full-on meltdown from being within a three-foot radius of him.

I clear my throat, pulling myself out of the spiral. "P-Perhaps later."

He quirks an eyebrow, amused. "Okay then."

We fall into a silence-not uncomfortable, just... charged. And I hate how aware I am of every single breath he takes.

Then I remember why I even walked out here.

"Umm..." I fidget with the sheet I'm still holding. "I was wondering where you kept my sheets... you know... from last night."

"Oh." His voice dips, and then he scratches the back of his neck like he's the one who should be flustered. "I washed them. They should be dry by now."

"You... washed them?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

I shake my head quickly, maybe too quickly. "Oh no. That's not... it's nothing. Thank you."

I bite down on my lip, my cheeks heating as the image of why the sheets needed washing flashes in my brain. I start turning away, about to bolt with what little pride I have left, when his voice stops me cold.

"Are you still going to act like nothing happened last night?"

My heart stutters.

I freeze in place, slowly turning back to find him staring at me-serious, intense, his brows drawn together in frustration. It hits like a wave: he's not letting this slide.

"I'm not acting-"

"Wrong answer," he cuts in, firm. "I know what you're trying to do. Trust me, all your excuses? I've used them before. I want your real answer, Soph."

"I don't know what to say, Okay." I finally breathe out. "Last night was..."

"Amazing," he finishes for me, stepping forward just a little.

I swallow hard. "Yeah. It was."

He takes another step toward me, slow and sure, his eyes locked on mine like he's trying to read the thoughts I haven't dared say out loud yet.

"You don't have to say anything else," he says, voice quieter now, like the weight of the moment has started to settle into him too. "But don't run from it, Sophie."

"I'm not running."

"You're retreating, then."

I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out-because he's not wrong.

He's almost right in front of me and I panic.

"It's just..." I take a step back, and he immediately steps forward. "This is all new to me, okay? And I'd really appreciate it if we didn't talk about it-for a while."

He stops, his eyes narrowing slightly. "For how long?"

"What?"

"You said you don't want to talk about it. I'm asking-for how long?"

"O-oh... um, I don't know." I scratch my head, chasing an itch that isn't really there. "Until I say so?"

He lets out a snort. "Then it'll take forever."

Ugh, this is getting frustrating.

"Why can't we just forget it?" I mutter, tossing his sheets in his direction. "You've had plenty of one-night stands, so this should be a piece of cake for you. I'm totally fine forgetting it ever happened. We were drunk, after all."

He catches the sheets with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine.

I should leave. I should turn around, head to the laundry room like I planned, blast music in my headphones and forget this entire conversation ever happened. But of course, that would make too much sense.

Theo steps forward again. One step closer and my heart is already trying to beat its way out of my chest.

"You know," he says, voice annoyingly calm for someone who just sent my pulse into overdrive, "we both know I didn't taste that much alcohol when I had my tongue in those lips of yours."

My legs go weak.

Heat floods my cheeks, my neck-hell, probably my whole body. I can't even blame it on the heater. I stare at him, completely speechless, like he just body-checked me mid-thought.

"And you're right," he continues, because apparently, he's not done wrecking my nervous system. "I should act like this was just one of those one-night things."

I lift my chin, trying to keep my cool, even though I'm one second away from combusting. "Then why don't you?"

He stares for a beat, jaw tightening. "Because a one-night stand is someone you forget the second the door closes behind them."

His eyes darken, that stupidly hot vein on his neck popping as he leans in a little closer. "And I'm not ready to forget how you sounded when I kissed you. Or how you looked at me when my tongue was inside you."

My lungs forget how to function.

I open my mouth. Close it. Then shake my head. "This is too complicated."

"Yeah," he says, voice a little quieter now, a little rougher. "It is."

And then he steps back-not dramatically, not angrily-but in that resigned, quiet way that makes something twist in my stomach.

"I'll stop pushing," he mutters. "You win. We'll forget it, till you're ready to talk."

I don't like the way he said it, but I have the right to speak. This is the right choice-at least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Still, I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it. Not yet. I mean, hormones aside, this is Theo. My brother's best friend. The guy every college girl crushes on.

If word gets out that we're... involved, or that I'm living with him, things could spiral-for both of us.

The air between us feels colder now, even though neither of us has moved. We're still staring at each other when a sudden ring tone cuts the silence.

Theo's phone won't stop buzzing. It's practically vibrating off the couch until he finally walks over and snatches it up.

"Hello..." he answers, voice low and casual. Then a pause. "Okay, I'm coming." He ends the call and glances over at me. "It's Blair. She's downstairs with Alex."

"Oh." I drop my laundry bag by the door. "I can go get them... if it's okay for them to come up?"

He raises an eyebrow like I just asked if I'm allowed to breathe.

"It's your apartment too. Of course they can." He grabs his slides and heads for the door. "And don't worry, I'll get them."

I blink. "Seriously, I can-"

"Don't worry about it," he says again, cutting me off with that stubborn, leave-it-to-me tone.

As he pulls the door open, his eyes flick to me-specifically to my neck. His gaze lingers for a beat longer than necessary before a sly, barely-there smirk starts to form.

He catches himself, but it's too late. I saw it.

"I noticed a couple marks on your neck earlier," he says casually, like he's talking about the weather. "Might wanna hide those. We don't want your friends getting suspicious, now do we?"

And with that, he slips out the door, leaving it to close softly behind him.

I'm frozen in place, staring after him, hand instinctively flying up to my neck.

Shit.