Page 45 of Crawl for Me

Sam barrels into my room, hair sticking up like a scarecrow, shirt half-undone, with a deranged grin already plastered across his face. He bounds straight onto the bed, nearly kneeing me in the kidney in the process.

“Thanks for saving my ass last night,” he chirps, flopping down beside me like we’re at some weird post-hangover sleepover and not currently sharing air with the ghost of my orgasm and a man I just crammed into the closet.

I pull the sheets tighter around me like a chastity belt and squint at him. “How are you so… alive?”

He shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows and fluffing one of my pillows. “Youth. Resilience. And maybe the leftover Chinese I stole from your fridge.”

I roll my eyes—then freeze.

There, tangled in the mess of sheets and regret, is a sliver of black silk. Knotted deep into the folds.

My stomach drops.

Noah’s tie.

Of course it had to get lost right there. Perfect. Just what I needed—my dignity playing hide-and-seek in a crime scene.

Sam yawns, stretches like a cat, then rolls his head toward me. His eyes skim the heap of sheets, the mess I’ve cocooned myself in, and land exactly where mine are already pinned. The thin strip of material peeking out like a fucking flag. His brows shoot up, and before I can blink, he’s leaning forward with a smirk and plucking it free.

He twirls it between his fingers, brows wiggling. “What’s this then?”

“That’s called a tie, Sam,” I deadpan, sinking deeper into the pillows.

He scoffs, lips quirking. “Oh, I know what it is. I’m just wondering why you’re hiding luxury neckwear in your sheets. You running some kind of side hustle I don’t know about? Silk-for-sugar-daddies?”

I give him a half-hearted kick and yank it from his grip, shoving it under the pillow. “It’s laundry. Shut up.”

“Laundry, huh.” He leans back against the headboard, that shit-eating grin growing wider—until something flickers in his eyes, and his brows shoot up. “Wait. Didn’t some poor bastard help haul me up here last night? Tall? Dark hair?” His gaze drops to the pillow, then back to me. “This wouldn’t happen to belong to our mystery savior, would it?”

My nerves nosedive. Closet, tie, Noah. Shit.

“Sam,” I warn, voice flat. I’m two seconds from smothering him with a pillow and dragging Noah out of the closet to help bury the evidence.

He holds his palms up, sighing dramatically. “Fine, fine. Just—please tell me it’s not Connor.”

A sharp, ugly laugh bubbles out of me. “Connor?” I wheeze. “In a tie? You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. That man thought dressing up is putting on socks.”

Sam laughs, full belly laugh, all teeth and no volume control. “Right? I’m still convinced he owns one pair of boxers and rotates them like a washing machine cycle. Weirdest six weeks you’ve ever given someone, Sable, seriously.”

I give a weak smile, eyes flicking to the closet.

Still shut.

He pauses, squinting down at the bed again. “Wait. Is that⁠—?”

I follow his gaze.

Oh. No. No no no no no.

The cost of what we’ve been doing—itemized—right there in front of me. A crumpled foil wrapper glints from the mess of covers, wedged between a crease in the sheet.

Why is there so much stuff hiding in my bed?!

I snatch it up and fist it tight in my palm. “That’s a… chocolate. From last night. I think.”

Sam looks at me. “A chocolate.”

“Yep.”