The next day, I wake to Mateo singing out from down the hall, before he shoves the door open. “Wakey wakey, hand off snakey,” he calls over to us.
I groan, suddenly not wanting to get up.
“Come on Pumpkin, time for school,” Mateo calls and I grab my pillow and I lob it at him. He ducks and the pillow hits the wall.
Ezra rolls over and out of bed, and I raise an eyebrow at Mateo when his eyes roam over his muscled body. “Oi, stop, checking out my mate,” I scold, and he smirks.
“I can look, just can’t touch,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at me.
Ezra yawns, rubbing his eyes. How is it even possible for him to wake up dead tired and look like a God in just his boxer shorts, while I look like I got attacked by some angry raccoons? I try to flatten my hair, getting up myself. “You really
