Reviews for A.M. Johnson

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Rook was standing by the sink, shirtless and wet and laughing while he rubbed a towel over miles of warm brown skin and muscle. My eyes snagged on the light smattering of hair on his chest and how it trailed to his stomach and dipped below the waist of his jeans. He was beautiful and strong lines, cuts and angles, and Jesus he had abs. I didn’t remember him ever looking this hot without a shirt. I tried to rake through all of the teenaged, lustful, jock fantasies I’d had about him when I was younger and came up empty. Nothing could have prepared me for the man standing in front of me.

“Honey?” My mom stared at me, and I forced myself to breathe, to say something.

Unfortunately, all I could muster was a sputtered one-word answer. “N-naked.”

“What?” Rook gave me a worried look.

I rubbed a hand over my face and stared at the wall. “No… not naked-naked, but why?” I waved a hand in Rook’s general direction and pinched the bridge of my nose as my face flushed with heat. I’d bet my life my cheeks were the color of a ripe tomato. Fuck. Apparently, somewhere between the living room and the kitchen I’d lost the ability to form a coherent sentence. “Why are you without shirt, shirtless, all…” I waved my hand again. “Like that.”

“Are you feeling alright?” By the tone of my mother’s voice, I could tell she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be genuinely concerned. I outright refused to look at Rook. “Sit down before you hurt yourself. You’ve been running all day and—”

“I’m fine mom, I was just…” What? Caught off guard? By my best friend’s abs? Platonically of course. “What’s going on? Why is Rook all… wet?”

“I might’ve accidentally turned on the water too soon while he was still tightening the pipe.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “You know me, I have the patience of a two-year old.”

Rook set the towel on the counter, and against my better judgment, I turned to look at him.

“The pipe shouldn’t cause you anymore trouble,” he said and picked up his soaking wet shirt, wringing it out over the sink. “I added enough plumbers tape to last you a lifetime.”

“Let me get you one of Isaac’s t-shirts. I’ll throw this in the washer,” she offered and took the shirt from his hand. “I’ll be right—”

“I have a hoodie he can wear,” I blurted. “It’s in the coat closet.”

“Will it fit him?” she asked, and I resented her dubious expression.

I wasn’t that small. I had abs too damn it.

“It will fit.”

It barely fit.

The light-yellow fabric hugged his shoulders and arms, a size too small, but Christ he looked hot. And there was this complete caveman satisfaction in having him wear something of mine for once. In high school, I’d practically lived in his hockey jersey, and I’d loved how it had made me feel like his. It had been stupid and juvenile, and I guess I still had some growing up to do because seeing him in my clothes made it feel like he was mine too.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said as we walked down the driveway to his car.

“Around eight?”

“Sure.”

He leaned against the driver’s side door, and I tugged on the string of the hoodie. “You can keep this.”

“I have plenty,” he chuckled, and I tried to hide my disappointment with a smile. Like always he read me like a book. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said and forced my smile wider.

“Do you want me to keep it?”

“No… I… I figured it would be easier.” I raised a shoulder, but it wasn’t as nonchalant as I would have liked, and he reached for my hand.

He slotted our fingers together, staring down at our hands. “Say what you mean, Luka.”

It’s what he’d used to say to me when we were kids, when he could tell I was sad, or worried or afraid of what I had running through my mind. It had been a lot easier to tell him the truth inside our fort with the mask of pouring rain and moonlight.

“I want you to keep it,” I said, and he lifted his eyes to mine.

“Why?”

The muscle in my jaw clenched as I swallowed. Did he know? He had to know. Maybe my stupid little heart wasn’t as dumb as I thought. It was dark outside, the clouds covering the moon, the shadows of his face hidden. I couldn’t read him, like all those other times, in the pitch black of night, and instead of doing the smart thing, avoiding the truth all together, I asked him a question.

“Did you like it when I wore your jersey in high school?”

He didn’t answer right away, his thumb rubbing two small circles into my palm. The rough touch of his skin raised a riot of goose bumps from my wrist to my elbow. “It made me feel proud.”

“Proud?”

“Like you belonged to me.”

“I did…I do. I’ll always be yours,” I said, hoping he could hear the truth this time. Hear it and own it.

“I know.”