By the time he finally broke free, Rex felt like he'd barely survived an apocalypse. His hair stuck out in five different directions, his collar looked like someone had tried to strangle him with it, and his face… good god, his face. It was like a battlefield of lipstick. Smudges across his cheeks, streaks down his jaw, even a perfect kiss-print stamped right on his temple like some kind of mafia brand. He didn't even know how that one got there.
Of course he couldn't go to the class like this, so he made his way towards the bathroom.
On the way to the bathroom, naturally people stared. Not with disgust, though. If anything, their curiosity was tinged with awe, like he'd just walked out of a warzone victorious. And somehow, infuriatingly, he still looked good. Messed up, yes, but in that "wild charm" kind of way, like a rock star stumbling off stage, sweat-soaked and wrecked but still untouchably handsome.
