Fading Lines | (Line Series, Book 1) ✔️

chapter twelve: everywhere

— Everywhere

➳ Brooklyn Brody 

As I drifted awake, the room around me gradually took shape through heavy-lidded eyes. My first conscious sensation was the cool air brushing over me, sending a shiver down my spine. Instinctively, I pulled the blanket tighter, sitting up slowly as I tried to make sense of my surroundings. This wasn't my room. The space was vast, with sleek furniture and understated elegance that seemed oddly out of place for a post-club night out.

A quiet rush of water started from somewhere nearby, possibly the bathroom. I listened, pulse quickening as I pieced together the night before—or rather, failed to. Memories were jumbled, blurred by the fog of exhaustion and, I suspected, more than a few drinks.

Where was I?

I glanced at a clock mounted on the opposite wall. 9:09 a.m. Plenty of time to slip out, go home, and figure this all out later. My first steps across the room led me to the window, which I quickly shut to stop the chill. Glancing in the mirror, I took in my reflection: disheveled hair, smudged makeup, an oversized navy-blue T-shirt I didn't recognize. Beneath it, just my underwear.

"Great," I muttered to myself, heart pounding as the water shut off. Someone was about to walk out of that bathroom, and I had no idea who.

Frantically, I looked around for my clothes but saw nothing familiar. I braced myself, every nerve buzzing as footsteps approached. The bathroom door swung open.

And there, framed in the doorway, stood Dylan.

"Really?" I groaned, a mix of surprise and irritation. "You have got to be kidding me. Did we—did we actually hook up?"

Dylan raised a brow, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. "Good morning to you, too," he replied, his tone light but his eyes steady on mine. Seeing my unease, he smirked. "Of course not, Brooklyn. Who do you take me for?" He leaned forward, tapping my forehead with a teasing finger.

I let out a silent sigh of relief, though my cheeks felt warm under his gaze. As my eyes drifted downward, they caught on his stomach, the defined lines of his abdomen disappearing under a towel slung low on his hips. I quickly averted my eyes, but not before his smirk deepened.

"Where are my clothes, and why am I here?" I managed, gathering a semblance of composure.

Dylan crossed to his closet, grabbing a black T-shirt and pulling it over his head with practiced ease, muscles rippling as he did. "You're here because you passed out in my club. Your friends were... less than attentive," he said, slipping into a pair of jeans. "I brought you here and let Mr. Baker know this morning. He sends his apologies."

Apologies? I barely remembered the night before, let alone anything involving Chase.

Dylan nodded toward the hallway. "Wilson took your clothes to the laundry. They should be ready."

I exhaled, momentarily relieved. "Thank you," I murmured, my eyes sweeping over the room again. Now that I looked more closely, this wasn't a guest room—it was clearly his. "But why am I here? Don't you have a guest room?"

He reappeared, his gaze fixed on me. "I do," he answered smoothly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "But at around 03:30 in the morning, you decided you preferred my bed over the guest room. So here you are."

"Oh, God." I groaned, covering my face, embarrassment burning through me. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. "No apologies needed. I actually got a good night's sleep. Rare, for me." His tone softened, but his gaze remained intense.