ZAIJIAN HEWSON
I had known Acir Hills for years.
I knew the way she took her coffee. I knew she tapped her fingers against tables whenever she was nervous. I knew she preferred piano music when she needed to think. I knew the little crease that appeared between her eyebrows whenever she was frustrated. I knew far too many things about her.
But apparently, I didn’t know one of the most obvious things.
She lived across the hallway from me.
I was still trying to process that when her door opened and I saw her unprepared to see anyone. She had been crouching near the floor, reaching for a package, wearing a loose white sando and soft pajama shorts. My brain supplied several thoughts at once. The first was that she looked beautiful. Secondly, was that I was a man with functioning hormones.
