“We should make out while we wait,” he murmurs.
A laugh slips out of me. “You know, they say new relationships really shouldn’t live together this soon. But I’m trying to figure out why.”
“I know, right?” he teases, leaning closer. “It’s perfect. I get to see you all the time.”
His mouth brushes mine, barely a whisper of contact, and the smallest sound escapes me. Then he closes the distance fully, kissing me with that slow, unhurried certainty that always weakens my knees. His lips move against mine. His fingers skim my waist, tugging me closer until I’m pressed against him, my hands curling into the front of his T-shirt.
The kiss deepens, warm and plush and addictive. His tongue sweeps against mine in a lazy stroke that sends heat pooling low in my belly. It’s one of those kisses that makes the world fall away until it’s just him and me.
Eventually, we break apart, and his forehead rests on mine, both of us breathing the same small pocket of air.
“Yeah,” I whisper, dazed. “Living together is definitely working.”
We migrate to the sofa, still smiling, legs tangling together as we scroll through streaming options. I’m halfway through convincing him that we should start a new series when I sniff the air and pause.
“Do you… smell burning?”
Miles sits up straighter immediately. “You set a timer, right?”
“I think I did.” I freeze. “Oh no. No. No. No. You started kissing me, and now I can’t remember if I did or not.”
“Uh-oh,” he echoes.
We launch off the couch in unison, sprinting toward the kitchen. I yank open the oven door, and a plume of dark smoke billows out.
“Nooo,” I groan, horror-stricken. “This isnotsupposed to happen.”
Miles grabs the potholders and pulls out the tray. The tops of the sliders are completely charred.
“It’s okay,” he says, optimistic to the point of delusion. “They’re still edible.”
“Miles.” I pin him with a stare. “They’re black.”
He squints. “Well… just thetopsare black. Where the glaze was.”
“The glaze was the best part!” I throw my hands up. “Without the glaze, it’s just a dry ham-and-cheese sandwich.”
“No.” He holds up a finger. “They’re sliders.”
“The glaze makes them sliders, Miles.”
He shakes his head. “The small size makes them sliders.”
I gape at him.
He dumps the tray onto the cutting board and grabs a knife. “Just wait,” he says. With determination, he slices off the entire burned top layer.
Then he hands me a sad, decapitated mini ham and cheese.
With a long-suffering sigh, I take a bite.
“It’s… nothing special,” I say, discouraged.
“It just needs condiments,” he chirps. “Everything’s better with condiments.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Someday. Someday, we will be competent.”
“Exactly,” he agrees brightly. “Someday.”
