The flat smells faintly of peppermint tea.
Just as the kettle comes to a boil, the doorbell rings.
Probably the food, just in time for a very late but very much needed lunch.
I shuffle back to the intercom, pressing the button with a resigned sort of hope.
“Hello?” I say. “Who is it?”
“It’s Tom.”
I freeze.
“Tom?” I repeat. “As inyou?”
“Yes.”
There’s a beat where my brain tries to catch up and fails.
“I thought you were sending food,” I say.
“I am.”
“That usually involves someone else delivering it.”
“I’ll explain upstairs.”
“You could explain now.”
“I could,” he agrees. “I won’t.”
I close my eyes.
“Men,” I mutter. “Utterly incapable of communicating through intercoms.”
“I’m communicating,” he says mildly. “I’m just not answering questions while standing on the pavement.”
I consider my options. There are none I like.
“Fine,” I say. “Second floor.”
I hang up and immediately open my door, leaning against the frame before the sense hits me that I am wearing socks, a cardigan that’s buttoned wrong, and the general air of someone who has been emotionally supported by biscuits all day.
There is no time to correct any of this.
Footsteps hit the stairs almost immediately. Fast. Ridiculously fast. Like the stairs are a suggestion rather than an obstacle.
I push myself upright just as he appears, two large paper shopping bags swinging lightly at his sides, breathing barely affected.
“Oh,” I say, because it’s all I’ve got.
“You look comfortable,” he says, taking the last steps two at a time like he’s showing off.
“You sprinted,” I accuse.
“I walk quickly,” he replies.
“With bags.”
