Nora
I’ll text you my address.
Miles
Great. Thank you. I’ll see you then.
The next day at five o’clock sharp, my phone buzzes.
Miles
Meeting’s over. On my way.
Five minutes later.
Miles
Traffic. Might be late.
Two minutes after that.
Miles
False alarm. Traffic cleared. On my way again.
Ten minutes later.
Miles
Pulling up to your apartment.
I stare at my phone, half expecting the next update to be “now approaching your door.” But instead, there’s a knock. I launch off the couch and peer through the peephole. Miles stares back at me through a fisheye lens, black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, hair styled in that floppy, accidentally adorable way. He’s wearing a dark gray polo and—of course—khakis.
I open the door. “Hi, Miles.”
“This is a nice building.” His gaze roams from ceiling to floorboards before he grips the doorframe and gives it an experimental wiggle. It doesn’t budge.
“I just rent it,” I reply, stepping aside. “Come in.”
He steps through the doorway. And—wow. He smells good. Cedar and sage. It’s not overpowering or cologne-y, but unexpectedly masculine. I shake the thought away before it can finish forming.
“Welcome to my very humble abode.” I wave my hand over the very small studio apartment. Shit. Immediately, I clock everything I should’ve fixed. The laundry basket overflowing in the corner. At the very least, I could have dumped everything into the closet and shut the doors. Maybe folded the blanket draped over the couch. Tidied up the papers scattered over my desk. Doesn’t matter. It’s not important. I’m not trying to impress Miles. He’s here for coaching.
“It looks quaint.” He crouches and works each knot on his shoes loose with careful fingers. No lazy toe-kick. He slides his shoes off then places them side by side—heels even, toes aligned, laces tucked neatly in—right next to my entryway situation of boots, sneakers, and one rogue flip-flop living its best chaotic life.
For some reason, the tiny, methodical way he does it makes my chest do this annoying little tighten-and-soften thing, like my brain can’t decide if I’m amused… or weirdly comforted.
“Are you making curry?” His gaze meets mine.
“Yeah. Are you hungry? I made plenty.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “You can sit and I’ll grab you a plate.”
“Are you eating too? I don’t want to be the only one.”
“Yes.”
I scoop curry and rice onto two plates, steam rising in a fragrant spiral of ginger and cumin. When I turn around, Miles is already seated at my tiny two-person table.
I freeze. “We can eat in the makeshift living room. That’s normally where I eat.”
