OWAIN LUTHER
I woke up with a headache, pounding like someone was smashing drums inside my skull.
I leaned back, my spine pressed against the couch I had crashed on last night. Not my finest glory. But sh*t happens.
Malcom was the first to descend the stairs, the morning sun slicing through the tall windows, spilling across his skin like a spotlight. The guy looked carved out of marble, too put together for a Friday morning. Is there even any day he even set aside to just chill out?
His eyes flicked toward me—then away—burying himself in his phone like a teenager hiding from trouble. Classic Malcom. Childish, but predictable.
He was still mad at me. I could smell it on him. Not as nuclear-hot as yesterday though, but still leveled. Well, there’s only one way to test the water.
“Don’t
