Page 4

Rilee

The smell of bacon is what finally lures me out of bed.

I grab a hoodie—definitely not mine, definitely not clean—and pad barefoot down the hall.

Living here has been an interesting experiment.

They’re loud. They eat an obscene amount of food. And between them, they have more abs than I can count. It’s annoying.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, the chaos is… impressive.

Hunter is at the stove, wielding a spatula over a pan of eggs. His dark hair’s sticking up in all directions, jaw clenched like someone pissed in his Cheerios. Shirtless, of course. Black gym shorts hanging low on his hips, muscles tensed.

He doesn’t glance up as I walk in. Just grunts. Classic.

Caleb’s perched on the counter, legs swinging, eating cereal straight from the box. He’s all golden skin and easy energy, hoodie half-zipped and hair still damp from a shower. There’s always this lazy spark in his eyes—like he’s in on a joke you haven’t heard yet.

And then there’s Grayson.

Leaning against the fridge. Shirtless. Sweats slung low on his narrow hips, hair still tousled like he just rolled out of bed and doesn’t care if the world knows it. He’s ink and muscle and unreadable silence, with a gaze so steady it feels like pressure against my skin.

Black lines curl over one shoulder—sharp geometric patterns that taper into soft script down his bicep, like poetry trapped in steel.

Spanning his chest is an intricate design with a wolf, mid-prowl, inked in clean black strokes, like it’s watching everything and saying nothing.

And down his forearm? A tangled mess of flowers and bones, beauty and ruin etched in grayscale.

It’s the kind of ink you don’t get unless you’re carrying things you don’t say out loud.

And it’s level ten hot.

Forget-how-to-breathe hot.

He doesn’t try to be distracting. He just is.

I feel my pulse jump and immediately pretend it didn’t.

Three hockey players. One tiny kitchen. Zero personal space.

“Good morning, boys,” I say, sliding onto the stool at the end of the island. “Didn’t know we were reenacting MasterChef: Testosterone Edition today.”

Caleb flashes a grin. “We take turns with breakfast. Today was supposed to be Hunter’s day.”

Hunter grunts. “It is my day.”

“Tell that to the toast you just murdered,” I say, eyeing the blackened graveyard in the toaster.

“I like it crispy.”

“Yeah, well. That bread’s one crunch away from becoming a weapon.”

He narrows his eyes at me but doesn’t argue. Which feels like a win.

Grayson pushes a mug of coffee toward me without a word. No cream. No sugar. Just black, bitter salvation.

I blink up at him. “You been spying on my caffeine preferences?”

He shrugs. “You talk in your sleep.”

My cheeks go warm. “Please tell me I said something interesting.”

“You cursed out a man named Craig for mislabeling a placenta.”

Caleb chokes on a mouthful of cereal.

Hunter freezes. Then— barely —a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth.

I sip the coffee. “Craig deserved it.”

Grayson nods, like that checks out.

I take another sip, oddly grounded by the moment. Like I belong here. Like this weird, loud, male-occupied war zone isn’t as terrifying as I expected.

I shift in my seat, crossing one leg over the other. I’m still in pajamas—tiny black sleep shorts and a soft gray T-shirt that clings in all the right places. No bra. Because it’s morning. And I live here now. Kind of.

The second I lean forward to grab my coffee, I feel it.

Hunter’s eyes.

Brief, but unmistakable—like his gaze drags over me before he jerks it away, jaw tighter than before.

Caleb’s not even subtle. He does a double-take, eyes dropping to my chest, then catching my smirk and raising his cereal like a white flag. “I like your shirt,” he says, innocent as sin.

Grayson doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything. But when I glance his way, he’s still looking. Like I’m a sketch he’s halfway through drawing and can’t decide where to shade next.

My skin buzzes.

I should be self-conscious. Should care that I’m practically half-dressed in a kitchen full of guys.

But I don’t.

Because I catch the way they all look at me.

And for once, it feels like power.

Then Hunter says, “We should talk rules.”

And just like that, the warmth fades.

I set my mug down. “Rules?”

“Yeah. You’re living here now. We all need boundaries.”

“Like no fun? Or just no female energy contaminating the air?”

Caleb jumps in. “I think what he means is—let’s figure out stuff like bathroom schedules. Chores. And, uh…” He looks at Hunter. “Guest policies?”

Hunter folds his arms. “No hooking up with anyone in the house.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re seriously making that a rule ?”

Grayson, still against the fridge, says nothing. But I swear his gaze sharpens.

“Look,” I say, leaning forward. “I didn’t move in here to start drama or seduce your entire hockey team. I moved in because my ceiling caved in and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Doesn’t mean we don’t set ground rules,” Hunter growls, looking intense.

Caleb tries to defuse. “Let’s just call it a no-hurt-feelings clause.”

“You afraid of getting your feelings hurt?” I tease.

He grins. “Not unless you’re planning to break my heart.”

Grayson tosses him a dish towel. “Can we focus?”

Hunter shoots me one last warning look. “Just… keep things simple.”

I raise a brow. “Then maybe stop making things complicated.”

A long, loaded silence.

Then Caleb lifts the box of cereal like a peace offering. “Breakfast truce?”

I grab a handful and toss a piece at his head. “Fine. But I’m not doing dishes if anyone dies from consuming that burnt toast.”

Hunter turns back to the stove with a muttered curse.

Grayson finally moves, sliding past me without a sound. The brush of his arm as he walks by is brief, but electric. Like static under skin.

The rules are ridiculous. The house is chaos.

But maybe, at least for now… it’s the kind I can live with.

Am I still mildly annoyed at Hunter’s rules? Yes.

But my first class starts in forty-five minutes, my hair is a war crime, and if I don’t make it to the hospital lab for scrubs pickup, I’ll have to wear the ketchup-stained pair from last week.

So I grab my toiletry bag and make a beeline for the hall bathroom—only to find the door wide open and the lights still on.

“Please be empty,” I mutter, stepping inside.

The mirror’s fogged. The air smells like shampoo and expensive man soap. And on the edge of the sink—

I freeze.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

There, proudly occupying the corner of the counter, is a fleshlight. Pink. Slick. Clearly just washed. Drying.

I gape at it. Like if I stare long enough, it’ll apologize and vanish.

It does not.

Instead, it just… sits there. Staring at me like a silicone accusation.

“Oh my God ,” I whisper, horrified and vaguely fascinated.

I reach for a washcloth to cover it—just as Caleb steps into the doorway behind me, towel slung low on his hips, hair dripping, looking completely unconcerned.

“Oh,” he says, blinking at the scene. “Right. That’s mine.”

I whip around. “You left it out?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I had to clean it. Set it there to dry.”

The thought of Caleb using this on himself is… unspeakably hot. I remember how large and eager he felt during our failed hookup.

Still, I cock an eyebrow at him. “You air-dried it in a shared bathroom?”

“Would you prefer I blow-dried it?” His mouth twitches.

“I would prefer it never existed in the same breathing space as my toothbrush.”

A low whistle cuts through the hallway. I glance past Caleb to see Hunter, still shirtless and scowling, toweling off his hair.

“What now?” he asks, then follows my glare to the sink.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—Caleb, again?”

“Look,” Caleb says, hands up. “She wasn’t supposed to see it.”

“You left it out. In the open. ”

“I live here too,” Caleb says, grinning. “We all have our… routines.”

“Get your routine off the counter before I light it on fire,” Hunter snaps.

Grayson appears behind Hunter, stretching, black tee clinging to his chest. He takes in the scene in silence, then looks at me.

“You okay?”

“I am haunted .”

He glances at the fleshlight. “At least it’s clean.”

“ Why is that the part you’re defending?”

Grayson chuckles.

Caleb moves past me, unfazed, grabs the thing by its base like it’s a reusable water bottle, and tosses it into a towel.

“I’ll relocate it,” he says cheerfully. “Apologies to your morning routine, princess.”

Hunter groans and walks off muttering, “I hate this house.”

“This feels like an OnlyFans promo,” I mutter.

Grayson just nods toward the sink. “I’d disinfect that.”

Then he disappears down the hall, cool as ever.

I stand there for a second, alone with my thoughts. And my trauma.

Then I turn the faucet on, splash my face, and tell myself I can still recover the day.

Maybe.

Probably not.