My stomach betrayed me first. At the mention of food, it gave the most pathetic growl, loud enough for Malcolm to hear. I wanted to sink into the mattress.
I cracked one eye open reluctantly, just enough to glimpse him.
He was crouched beside the bed, wearing my hoodie — the dark green one I usually wore at home. It stretched tightly across his broad shoulders, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he'd already made himself comfortable. His damp hair clung to his forehead, probably from a quick rinse, and that face...
God, that smile.
It was all smug and sunshine, like he hadn't just rearranged my entire existence last night. But his eyes — they were soft, tracing over me like I might break if he stared too hard.
"Why are you wearing my hoodie?" I mumbled, my voice hoarse with sleep and a little bit of shame.
He shrugged, totally unbothered. "My shirt was soaked by your spit, so I couldn't put it back on."
I blinked. My mouth dropped a little.
