Micah rolled on the bed once, twice, trying to ease the throbbing in his head. Each movement made the pain bloom sharper behind his eyes, like someone hammering from the inside. His stomach cramped in protest, forcing a quiet groan from his lips. He gritted his teeth and curled tighter beneath the blanket, wrapping the soft fabric around his bare body as if hiding could erase that embarrassment. His gaze drifted toward the bathroom door. The faint hum of running water reached his ears.
The curiosity was killing him. What was Clyde doing in there? His mind wandered, desperate to block out the pain.
He pictured Clyde's tall, sculpted frame under the showerhead, steam curling around him like mist. He pictured droplets sliding down the hard lines of his chest, tracing over those sharp collar bones, flowing lower until…
Micah swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, parched. God, stop. Stop it.
