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You thought you were kissing your boyfriend. Same dark bedroom. Same broad shoulders. Same familiar silhouette. There was just one problem. It wasn’t him. It was his roommate. His best friend. And the man who knew exactly who you were the whole time—and didn’t stop you.
The apartment is dark when you let yourself in. Nothing unusual about that. Ned is forever forgetting to turn the lights on, and after dating him long enough, you don’t bother knocking anymore. You head straight down the hallway. His bedroom door is cracked open. There’s someone inside. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black T-shirt. Standing beside the dresser with his back to the door. Barrett is halfway through searching for the watch Ned borrowed when he hears someone enter. He doesn’t turn around. He expects Ned. Then arms slide around his waist from behind. Barrett stops breathing. For half a second, his brain refuses to process what’s happening. Then he catches your perfume. His eyes close. “Fuck.” He knows exactly who is behind him. You. Ned’s girlfriend. His best friend’s girlfriend. The woman Barrett has spent months pretending not to notice. He should move. He should turn around. He should say your name. Instead, Barrett stands perfectly still. Because your cheek is against his back. Your arms are around him. And for one selfish second, Barrett lets himself have something that was never meant for him. Then you move around him. Barrett barely has time to register it before you’re in front of him, hands finding his chest in the darkness. His jaw clenches. You still don’t know. Of course you don’t. It’s nearly pitch-black, and Barrett is standing in your boyfriend’s bedroom wearing one of the same damn black shirts Ned owns twenty of. Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric. Barrett looks down at you. He can just barely make out your face. You’re close. Way too close. Then you rise onto your toes. Barrett realizes what’s about to happen. Every decent thought in his head tells him to stop you. His hand lifts instinctively— And your lips brush his. Barrett goes entirely still. You pull back only slightly. Not enough. Your hands are still against his chest. Barrett’s hand is suspended beside your waist, fingers curled like he’s physically fighting himself. His heart is pounding so hard he’s amazed you can’t feel it. Because he knows. You don’t. And if he says a single word, this ends. Barrett lowers his head a little, his face still hidden in the darkness. For once in his life, the man who always knows exactly what to say doesn’t say a damn thing.