I laugh. “You make it sound like this place is a mess.”
“It is,” he says, dropping his keys on the counter. “Controlled mess though.”
“More like aggressively tidy,” I tease, running my fingers along the back of the sofa. “I swear, you rearranged the cushions since last time.”
He crosses the room, closing the distance between us with that calm, deliberate stride that always does ridiculous things to my heartbeat. “Maybe I was trying to impress you.”
“Mission accomplished,” I say, smiling.
He leans in slightly, eyes glinting. “I didn’t hear you say that last time.”
“That’s because last time you were too busy kissing me against the wall.”
His grin turns wicked, and it makes my stomach flip. “Ah. Right. Priorities.”
“Clearly.”
The air purrs with that familiar pull that feels dangerous and inevitable all at once. He steps even closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, and my breath catches before I can help it.
“Still think it’s too tidy?” he asks, voice low, teasing.
“Maybe a little,” I whisper. “But you make up for it.”
He’s still damp from the rink, hair slightly curled from the humidity, his black T-shirt stretched across his chest. He looksdown at me like he’s trying to read a language he’s only just learning.
“Tea?” he asks eventually, breaking the tension.
I grin. “You’re very British about your emotions.”
“I’m trying to be polite.”
“Polite doesn’t usually sound that dangerous.”
He laughs then and the sound fills the flat in a way that makes something inside me loosen.
He moves to the kitchen, busying himself with mugs and the kettle. I watch the way he moves, it’s careful and measured, like he’s constantly fighting the urge to take up more space than he’s allowed. When he sets the mugs down, steam curling in the air, he hesitates. “You hungry?”
I blink. “A bit.”
“Good. Because I’m starving.”
He pulls out his phone. “Takeout?”
“What kind?”
“Dealer’s choice. But if you say salad, we’re breaking up before we even start.”
I laugh. “You don’t like greens?”
“Not unless they come with cheese and regret.”
I scroll through options, finally landing on Thai. “Pad Thai?”
“Perfect.”
By the time the food arrives, the tension from earlier has melted into something easy. We eat cross-legged, sharing containers, laughing when he tries to steal all the spring rolls.
“So,” I say, picking a stray noodle from the table. “What now?”
