ROOMMATES FOR THIRTY DAYS

THIRTY DAYS
One apartment. Two roommates. Thirty days.
Charlie looks like the kind of boy who blushes at swear words and says grace before meals. Sweet. Innocent. The last person you'd suspect of having a mind full of sin.
Babe looks like trouble - shameless, flirty, the type to walk around shirtless just to watch you squirm. Confident. Untouchable. The last person you'd suspect of turning pink when someone actually looks back.
Charlie has spent four years being the "nice one." The quiet friend. The angel with the dimples and the soft voice and the gentle hands.
Babe has spent four years being the "bold one." The shameless flirt. The guy who talks a big game and never, ever gets flustered.
But roommates see everything.
They see the way the angel's eyes go dark when no one's watching. They see the way the shameless one locks his door and blushes alone in the dark. They see the way the "innocent" boy memorizes every touch, every glance, every breath - and the way the "confident" boy falls apart the second someone finally, finally , stops looking away.
Charlie has thirty days to make Babe his.
Babe has thirty days to pretend he isn't already dying to be caught.
Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves.
Charlie wears his halo on his head - and his hunger in his eyes.
Babe wears his confidence like armor - and his shyness like a secret.
When the door closes and the lights go out, the only question is:
Who's going to break first?