Reece:Now?
Me:Yes.
Reece:Is this a booty call?
I can practically hear the smugness through the screen.
Me:Maybe.
Reece:I’ll be there in 10.
He makes it in eight.
When I buzz him in and open my door, he’s slightly breathless, hair sticking up in fifteen directions. He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt inside out, and he looks absolutely perfect.
“You didn’t brush your hair,” I observe.
“You said come over. I came over.” He steps inside, eyes roaming my apartment. “This is nice.”
“It’s small.”
“It’s you.” He’s already moving through the space, taking in the framed tattoo designs on the walls, the sketches scattered across my coffee table, the organized chaos of my bookshelf. “How long have you lived here?”
“Two years. Bought it right after I opened the studio.” I close the door, suddenly nervous. Having him here feels more intimate than his apartment. This is my space. My sanctuary. “Well, the bank owns most of it. But legally, some of it’s mine.”
He grins. “The American dream.”
“Something close to it.” I lead him farther in, gesturing around. “One bedroom. One bathroom. Kitchen so small I can barely turn around in it. But it’s new construction, and I only had to walk up one flight of stairs from the ground floor. Perfect for someone who hates exercise.”
“From a security perspective, it’s a nightmare.”
I blink. “What?”
“The ground floor has easy access, your windows face the street.” He’s moved to my living room window, peering out. “Anyone could see in. Anyone could…”
“Reece.” I touch his arm. “I’m fine. This is a safe neighborhood.”
“Still…” He turns, and there’s genuine concern in his eyes. “You should get better locks. Maybe a security system.”
“Are you seriously critiquing my apartment security right now?”
“I’m seriously worrying about you living somewhere this accessible.”
The protectiveness in his voice does something to me. He’s not trying to control or mansplain. He’s genuinely concerned, and it’s unexpectedly sweet.
“I’ve lived here two years without incident,” I say gently. “But I’ll think about better locks if it makes you feel better.”
“It would.”
“Noted.” I step closer, sliding my hands up his chest. “Now, can we stop talking about security systems?”
His eyes darken. “What did you have in mind?”
“I invited you over at one-thirty. What do you think I had in mind?”
“Say it.”
“No.”
