“A jomforter,” Rylie repeats, dragging a hand along the back of his neck. “A jean comforter.” “Why in god’s name is it on your bed?” “I … I think it’s pretty hilarious, to be honest with you,” he says, wrinkling his nose, his chest heaving. “I can see how maybe it’s not the most, uh, alluring of bedding in this moment, though.”
