He’s sitting up against a pile of pillows, legs stretched out, curly head flung back in an uncomfortable-looking position, fast asleep and snoring gently with his fingers intertwined over his stomach. He’s lost the hoodie, kept the soft-looking white t-shirt, and gained a tent in his jogging bottoms the size of a bloody wedding marquee. Oh my God. Oh my God. I eye it in disbelief. It may be dim in here, but I’d have to be registered legally blind not to be able to make out that thing. It’s testing the limits of his jogging bottoms, the jersey stretched taut over his, um, tent pole.
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