“Me too,” I breathe, letting myself relax into his hold, feeling safe, wanted, and alive in a way I never expected.
Time slips by unnoticed. The flat is noiseless except for our breathing and the faint drone of the city outside. I curl into his side, letting the heat of his body calm my own frantic pulse. He rests his cheek against my hair, fingers brushing my arm lightly, and for a moment, everything is perfect.
“I could stay like this forever,” he murmurs, voice muffled against my temple.
“Mmmm,” I whisper back, closing my eyes, letting the calm wash over me as my body hums with residual fire.
The smell hits us before the delivery guy even steps out of the elevator. Garlic, spice, and all the greasy, glorious promise of takeout. I open the door, and he grins at me, tipping his hat like he’s in some cheesy rom-com.
“Thanks,” I mumble, grabbing the bags before Callum can make some dramatic, swooping grab.
“I would’ve gotten it,” he protests, voice teasing, “but you look way too cute struggling with the bags.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help smiling. “Cute, huh? That’s a first.”
We settle onto the floor, backs pressed against the sofa, and prop the low coffee table between us. The containers wobble precariously, but it doesn’t matter, this is perfect. I unwrap the first box, and the aroma makes me inhale like I haven’t eaten in days.
Callum reaches over, stealing a fry before I can grab it. “Hey!” I scowl, and he raises his eyebrows, smirking as if he’s won a minor victory.
“You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood. I don’t share food.” I warn, pretending to be serious. But when I catch the mischievous glint in his eyes, I can’t keep a straight face.
“You’re funnier when you’re indignant,” he says softly, leaning back against the sofa. “Or maybe I just like watching you argue.”
I shove his shoulder lightly, laughing, and he snatches another fry from the table. “This is war,” I declare, grabbing one of the chicken wings. He makes a mock defensive move, holding up his arms as if he’s fending off an attack.
By the time we’re halfway through, the floor is a mess of wrappers and sauce stains. Our legs are tangled, knees brushing. Every so often, our fingers collide reaching for the same piece of food, and sparks of warmth shoot through me every time.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I murmur when he reaches for my last mozzarella stick, “or I’ll eat it out of spite.”
He leans in slightly, lips twitching. “Looking at you like what?”
“Like I’m something you want to eat,” it comes out quieter than intended, a little breathless.
He freezes for a heartbeat, then grins. “Maybe I do.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes, but I don’t push him away. The table is our little world, cluttered with food and stolen glances, and I don’t want it to end.
As we reach for another container, his fingers brush mine again. This time, he doesn’t pull back. His hand lingers, thumb rubbing tiny circles over the back of mine. My pulse spikes, heat coiling in my stomach. I catch my breath, just for a moment, and he smirks at me.
“You’re ridiculously distracting,” I mutter, and he laughs softly, that low, rumbling sound that makes my chest tighten.
“Right back at you,” he murmurs. “I mean, look at you. All focused and determined.”
I can’t help the flush creeping up my neck.
The laughter fades for a beat, replaced by something heavier. His hand curls around mine, pulling me closer, and I let him.My legs press against his, knees tangling. I feel him shift slightly, brushing his thigh against mine, and a shiver runs through me.
“Cal,” I murmur, but it’s soft, unsure, and he answers by pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. I tilt my head into him, and before I realise it, he’s leaning closer. I respond, sliding a hand into his hair, tugging him a little closer, and he groans into the kiss.
The table is pushed aside in the chaos, a forgotten prop. His hands travel up my back, gripping my sides, and my fingers fumble at his hoodie, pulling at the zipper, desperate for more skin on skin.
We move together, rocking slightly on the floor, the heat between us simmering into something combustible. His lips trace mine again and again, teasing, claiming, and I’m entirely lost in it. Every touch, every groan, every stolen breath makes the room shrink around us until nothing exists but him and the way he makes me feel. I could burn up and die and it would be worth it.
“Fuck, Rose…” His voice vibrating through me, and it sends something sharp and thrilling through my chest.
I murmur his name, soft and needy, and he responds by pulling me impossibly close, hips grinding slightly, hands moving in ways that make my knees buckle. We’re teetering on the edge of something forbidden and perfect, each kiss hotter than the last.
Then, a beep cuts through the haze. A single, intrusive ping from his phone. He groans, the sound itself is a curse, and fumbles for the screen. I catch the name before he can block it out.
