Rohan tucked me into bed. He wore my “Tap Dancers Need Wood” shirt that was too tight and short on him, fussing over me as he plumped up pillows to go behind my back.
He was amazing.
“I have one more gift for you,” he said.
I traced the line of his abs down to his waistband. “Is it R-rated?”
He picked up the acoustic guitar he’d brought in, his hand curved possessively around it, rummaging through the pocket of his shorts for a pick. He had dozens of them scattered about his room, but he pulled out this matte purple one that, according to his fan boards, was his favorite type.
“Did you write a new song?” I’d recently heard the finished version of the theme song for Hard Knock Strife and he was writing music again but, even though he was always willing to play for me while I dance
