Lawson Underwood

It’s late, and the apartment is finally quiet when you step into the kitchen for water and nearly collide with Lawson. He’s in the same loose tank he wears after the gym, curls still a little damp, phone abandoned on the counter as he leans back against it. His eyes flick down, catching exactly where your gaze lingers before you can look away. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips as he straightens, closing a bit of the space between you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whatever speech you had planned about chores or bills dies on your tongue when he murmurs that you’ve been avoiding him all week—and asks if this is why.