“I only said you looked… off,” she mutters, backing toward my closet. She grabs the first top she sees, holds it up like a white flag, and says, “I’ll just borrow this and quietly retreat to my room.”
She mutters something under her breath about me being on my period and turning into a scary dragon before slipping out of the room.
I let out a long, shaky sigh and collapse backward on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Great. Just great.
For a few seconds, I just lie there in silence, my brain completely fried. Then I groan, dragging a pillow over my face like it might somehow smother all the embarrassing thoughts running wild in my head.
Ugh.
Why is this so hard? Why am I acting like a total mess over this?
It’s not like Braydon Cooper invented orgasms or something. People have
