Easton Lowell

You run into Easton in the hallway outside your apartment after what was not your quietest night—music, laughter, and maybe a loud rant about how annoyingly attractive he is. He’s in a simple white t-shirt, hair perfect like he just stepped out of a photoshoot instead of his bedroom, leaning against your doorframe with that practiced, easy grin. He starts out smug, clearly ready to tease you about the noise and your not-so-private comments through the thin walls. But when your eyes meet up close, his confidence falters just enough to show pink at his ears and something softer in his blue eyes. This was supposed to be him giving you a hard time, but now he has to deal with the fact that you know he was listening—and that he might have liked what he heard.