He leans back, still holding my gaze, pen tapping lightly against the page. The corners of his mouth curve just enough to make it worse. “Your turn.”
I pick up the paper he’s already filled out. “Favorite food: steak. Favorite color: gray. First kiss…” I trail off. “You didn’t write a name.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Liar.”
He doesn’t deny it. I reach for the next page just to have something to do with my hands, but he’s still watching, waiting, and when I finally look up again, his expression hasn’t changed.
A knock at the door breaks the quiet. He stands before I can move, opens it to the delivery guy, and sets the bag on the counter. The smell of Thai food fills the room, warm and heavy.
He nods toward it. “Eat.”
“I told you, I’m not?—”
“You are.”
I roll my eyes but grab a bite anyway. Somewhere between chewing and glaring at him, I realize the tension’s shifted—not gone, just quieter, deeper, the kind that fills the air between two people who have run out of excuses to pretend they don’t notice each other.
“What do you notice first about someone?” I read aloud.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Lips. Yours flush when you’re angry.”
I freeze for a second, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw something. “You’ve been staring at me that much?”
“Enough to notice.”
I look back down at the paper before he can see what that does to me. “Next question. What’s your biggest weakness?”
He doesn’t look away. “You tell me.”
My throat goes dry. “That’s not how this works.”
“It’s an answer.”
I force a laugh. “Fine. Mine’s chocolate.”
“Liar,” he says softly.
I look up. “What?”
His voice drops even lower. “You’re lying because you’re uncomfortable.”
Something in me tightens, a slow pull low in my stomach that I can’t ignore. My chest feels too small, my skin too aware of itself. He watches me like he’s already figured out what I’m trying to hide, and it makes my pulse stumble, my breath come shallow, like I’m waiting for him to say something I’m not ready to hear.
He sets the paper down and leans forward, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. “You want to know what my weakness is?”
“No,” I whisper, though I don’t move away.
“Curiosity,” he says. “It gets me into trouble.”
He’s close enough that his breath brushes my skin when he speaks, and my whole body feels like it’s waiting for something to happen.
“Artyom,” I say quietly, but it comes out softer than I mean it to.
He studies my face like he’s memorizing it, then his hand lifts, just slightly, fingertips brushing my cheek. The touch is light, barely there, but it feels like fire. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he says, voice rougher now.
