He was so used to seeing Beckett Caldwell dressed like he'd walked right out of the pages of a luxury fashion magazine that he found himself lifting an eyebrow at the other man’s wrinkled jeans and rumpled band tee from a 2004 Yellowcard show. “Rough night?” Declan asked and took a drink of his coffee, grimacing and releasing a curse when it burned his tongue. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that Beck’s sudden grin was due to his stinging mouth. “Long night,” Beck corrected and shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “And I could say the same for you, neighbor.” “What?” “You're not exactly Mr. GQ right now either.” He slid off his aviator sunglasses and folded them on the neck of his tee shirt. Yawning, he gave Declan a condemning look. “Looks like you haven't slept in—oh, I don't know—a couple weeks.” Was it that obvious that he'd been up most of last night just thinking about her again? That he'd climbed out of bed more than once and had gotten fully dressed, ready to go over to her place and admit he was a fool so they could figure things out and move on with their lives.
