“Oh shit,” I hear before a very familiar face comes into view. A face so handsome, it was booped on the nose by a line of Greek gods. Chiseled. Tan. Graced with just enough scruff to make every inner thigh within a twenty-mile radius weep with joy. The Bulge. Isn’t that just freaking poetic? “I’m so sorry,” the Bulge says. “I should have been paying attention to where I was going. Are you okay?” Yes. No. Does a bruised ego count as not doing okay? What about a dent in one’s lustful urges?
