“Oh God,” I say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. But that was—”
“Ridiculous,” he finishes. “Yes. I’m aware.”
I wipe my eyes. “Thank you for trying, though. Very emotionally supportive of you.”
“I do what I can,” he says dryly.
“I did briefly consider signing up to online dating,” I add. “But then I remembered men on those apps are mostly creeps. No offence.”
“No offence taken,” he replies. “I’ve met us.”
He opens the drawer, grabs a spoon, and scoops a generous amount of hazelnut spread out of the jar like he’s done it a thousand times.
Which he probably has.
I watch the spoon go to his mouth.
Watch his lips close around it.
Oh.
Oh no.
“I don’t think I ever really noticed,” I say slowly, eyes still on his mouth, “how… sensual your lips are.”
He chokes.
Quite dramatically.
Coughs, bends slightly, thumps his chest like the spread has personally betrayed him.
“Fucking hell,” he wheezes.
I pat his arm, uselessly. “Breathe. It would be very inconvenient if you died right now.”
He straightens, eyes watering. “You cannot say things like that at two in the morning.”
“Pregnancy,” I say mildly. “Very rude hormones. No internal editor.”
He looks at me. At the spoon. At the jar. At the situation neither of us is naming.
“This kitchen,” he says hoarsely, “has become a dangerous place.”
I hold the jar out to him again, arm extended like I’m offering a peace treaty.
“Go on,” I say. “If this kitchen is going to be dangerous, we may as well commit.”
He hesitates, then takes another scoop, slower this time, like he’s learned something. I watch. Obviously.
I clear my throat. “Also. For the record.”
“Yes,” he says warily.
“You’ve already seen me naked.”
He freezes, spoon hovering mid-air. “I have not.”
I give him a look. “You absolutely have.”
