Blake Hart
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Roomies in Arms - Part 7
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 15:00:11 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
The kitchen was unreasonably clean. I'd scrubbed it top to bottom before sunrise, which is either admirable or unhinged, depending on your relationship with control issues. I was spreading Marmite on a slice of toast—thinly, properly, not like some monster—while Nick nursed a hangover at the table and Jax mumbled something about needing “real food, like chips or something.”
Lex sat slouched on the counter, hood up, scrolling his phone. He squinted at my toast like it had personally offended him.
“Is that... honey mold again?”
“For the last time,” I said without turning, “it’s Marmite.”
Nick groaned. “Isn’t that the thing Australians use in rituals?”
“It’s British, and it’s good. You just need a palate.”
“If I had a palate,” Lex muttered, “I wouldn’t be in this kitchen.”
Before I could defend Marmite’s cultural and nutritional legacy, the hallway door creaked open. And then he was there.
“Are you still eating that nasty shit?” Bryson’s voice landed with a smirk before he did.
Shirtless, hair aggressively made like he’d slept with a wind machine, he strode into the kitchen wearing nothing but low-slung black boxer briefs and a level of confidence that bordered on criminal. The bulge was impressive, I knew this much. But, I found it obscene, really. He could’ve worn a robe. Or a hazmat suit. Or just stayed in his room until decency regained jurisdiction.
I kept my gaze firmly at shoulder level.
Nick and Jax, standing by the sink with their cereal bowls, were not as noble. They stared like a pair of teens seeing their first R-rated movie.
“Bryson,” I said, flat. “Put on a shirt. This isn’t a music video.”
“This is a shared space,” Lex added without looking up, “not a Calvin Klein campaign.”
I turned to Nick and Jax. “You guys good? Want something? A cup of tea? Binoculars? Camera?”
Jax choked on his spoon. “Huge…!”
Nick blinked at the countertop like it might save him. “I know…!”
Bryson just beamed, stretching slightly—on purpose of course and ignored everyone, pouring himself coffee like he’d been there all along. “This place has such… charm,” he said, glancing around like the sink might try to bite him. “I see you’ve kept up the prep school aesthetic. Toast, yeast paste, martyrdom.”
“At least I don’t live-stream my own scandals,” I muttered.
Nick snorted into his juice. Jax mouthed “damn.”
Bryson paused, then gave me a slow, lopsided smile. “Touché. Look at you, Seb. You’ve got claws now.”
I didn’t respond. I took a bite of my toast, defiantly.
Bryson sat beside Nick, still shirtless, sipping his coffee like it was champagne.
“To be honest,” he said, “I came for the detox. And to make sure Father’s porcelain heir wasn’t dying of mold exposure. Judging by the Marmite, it’s still a possibility.”
Lex looked at me. “You sure this guy’s related to you?”
“Half,” I said.
“Emotionally, like… maybe an eighth,” Bryson added brightly.
Jax rubbed his eyes. “What even is this breakfast dynamic?”
“Trauma,” I said. “Lightly toasted.”
◆◆◆
Bryson insisted on a campus tour. Not for educational purposes—God forbid, but to “survey the local fauna,” as he put it. I suspected he just wanted to be seen, or gawk at the girls.
We cut across the quad, where a few girls in oversized sweatshirts giggled as we passed. Bryson winked. One of them nearly dropped her iced coffee.
“You’re impossible,” I muttered.
“I’m a public service,” he replied. “You’re welcome.”
He kept glancing around like the campus was a catwalk and he was late for his moment. I led us toward the older part of the university—the sandstone buildings.
Then it happened.
A group of frat types loitered near the low wall by the fountain. One of them nudged his friend and tilted his head in our direction.
“Look, it’s the ghost of Downton Abbey,” the guy said, loud enough to carry. “But make it twink and pasty.”
Bryson stopped walking.
I didn’t.
“Let it go,” I muttered.
Bryson didn’t move. “Excuse me?”
The frat guy blinked, caught between amusement and confusion. “What?”
Bryson turned slowly, hands in pockets. “I get it. You’re edgy. Campus alpha. Your mommy never hugged you right and now sarcasm’s your personality.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“You want to take shots, take them at me. Leave my brother out of it.”
The guy hesitated, scoffed. “Didn’t realize he needed a bodyguard.”
Bryson stepped forward, still calm. “He doesn’t. But I don’t like the tone you use when you pretend someone less loud than you is less everything than you. So unless you want me to explain basic human decency in front of your very bored-looking friends, I’d suggest you back off.”
There was a pause.
Then the guy muttered something to his friends and walked off.
I sighed. “I can handle myself, you know.”
Bryson turned to me. “Oh, I saw. You were seconds away from annihilating him with a slightly bitchy look. Very fatal. Would’ve been headline news.”
I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t have to escalate it.”
He shrugged. “Pasty is one thing. But a twink? You’re not that pretty.” Then he threw an arm around my shoulders and let out a loud, delighted laugh like we’d just left a comedy club.
I blinked—then couldn’t help it. I laughed too.
For once, we were on the same side of the punchline.
We cut across the lawn toward the campus gates as I tried to explain my errands that Saturday.
“So let me get this straight,” Bryson said incredulous, hands in his jacket pockets, sunglasses still on like he feared sudden fame. “You’re hitting the bookstore, buying Marmite, and then heading back to the dorm to get that letter for... what was it again? Raj?”
I sighed. “It’s Arjun. And I already have it. In my satchel.”
Bryson tilted his head, smirking. “You mean your purse?”
“It’s a satchel.”
“Sure it is, Indiana.”
“It has compartments.”
“Most purses do.”
I ignored him, clutching it a little tighter. “Anyway, I won’t be long. Just errands and posting the letter.”
He gave me a once-over. “Pen pals in India. Tea-colored toast. Sibling trauma. You’re basically a Wes Anderson character at this point.”
I sniffed. “That’s not really an insult.”
He laughed. “I didn’t say it was.”
We paused at the street crossing. I turned to him.
“Anyway, it’s going to be boring. Are you okay here on your own?”
Bryson looked around — students lounging in grass, girls eyeing him from a café window, some guy on a scooter almost colliding with a pigeon.
“I’ll manage,” he said. “Go live your sepia-toned life, little bro.”
I hesitated for a moment, then nodded and headed off.
Behind me, I heard him call—low, amused—
“Tell Raj I said hi.”
“It's Arjun, and I've already sealed the letter in the envelope!" I shouted without turning.
And then then I heard ladies fawning and giggling, he was going to be fine on his own.
◆◆◆
By the time I returned, my purse, I mean satchel… was heavier, and the postman at the corner box had complimented my handwriting. Arjun would surely appreciate that.
I unlocked the flat and stepped inside—only to freeze.
There were sounds coming from Lex’s room.
Rhythmic thumps. Groaning. A high-pitched yelp. Laughter. Then more groaning.
My heart stopped.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I did not survive a day of fraternal bonding and social battery only to come home to—
“COME ON, Take him harder!”
That voice—Asher’s?
I blinked, took two cautious steps forward.
Another yell: “Lex, you absolute snake!”
And then Bryson’s voice, mid-laugh: “He knifed me in the back while doing a peace sign!”
I knocked and pushed the door open.
I exhaled slowly. Not sex. Not hentai. Just PlayStation.
There they were—Lex sprawled sideways across his bed like a cat, Asher perched on the edge, and Bryson cross-legged on the floor, all of them shouting at a paused game screen filled with colorful chaos and character avatars wielding weapons they absolutely shouldn’t be trusted with.
Lex looked over. “Sebby! Your brother’s trash at combo sequences but elite at verbal taunts.”
Bryson held up a half-eaten bag of crisps. “We’re initiating a tournament. Winner gets the last Red Bull and immunity from dish duty.”
Asher gave me a crooked grin. “You’re just in time to witness Lex cheat with honor.”
I leaned in the doorway, raising a brow. “So… this is what international diplomacy looks like.”
Bryson patted the floor beside him. “Pull up a spot, ghost of Downton. Time to earn your keep.”
I didn’t move for a second.
Then I smiled—small, involuntary.
Maybe this weekend wasn’t a total disaster.
