The wooden floorboards creak beneath my bare feet. I wince, pausing mid-step like a cartoon burglar, but Finn doesn’t stir again. His hair is flattened on one side, stubble darkening his jaw, one tattooed arm flung across his eyes. He doesn’t even wear his sleeping mask. The sheet barely covers his hip, revealing the sharp cut of muscle.
I tear my focus off him to literally anything else. If I keep obsessively staring at him, I won’t get anything done ever again.
I tiptoe to the kitchen area, wincing as I open the cupboard door with its tell-tale squeak. My matcha tin sits on the second shelf, nestled between the Earl Grey and the chamomile. I pull it down. Two scoops of bright green powder into the bowl. A splash of cold water. I whisk in tight W motions until the paste is smooth. It’s an absurd amount of effort for a drink, I know, but the ritual calms me.
I heat the oat milk in a small saucepan, careful not to let it boil. Patience is key. Too hot and it scorches, too cool and the matcha won’t bloom properly. I’ve perfected this over hundreds of mornings, calibrated to my exact preferences.
But will he like it?
The thought catches me off guard, this sudden concern for someone else’s taste buds.
‘Is that a potion to turn me into a frog?’ His sleepy voice is a low gravelly rumble from the sofa bed.
I startle, nearly sloshing the matcha over the rim of the mug. Finn is propped up on one elbow, sheet pooled around his waist, hair sticking up. Elvis has migrated to his side.
‘Frog, prince… Tomato, potato.’ I pour hot oat milk into the mug, and the green liquid swirls into a pale jade.
‘That’s not how the saying goes.’ He scrubs a hand across his jaw, his gaze honing in with amusement. ‘Are you hiding behind that counter again, MacMickin?’
‘What?’ I let out a short laugh. ‘No? I’m making a beverage. It’s what people do in kitchens. Matcha. It’s green tea. Healthy. Lots of antioxidants.’
‘Mhm.’ He stretches with a yawn and the sheet sinks lower, clinging to the sharp V of his hips.
My eyes drift to the intricate ink swirling over his body, the chaotic tapestry of his life story written on his skin. Another tattoo I hadn’t noticed peeks out along his hip bone.
Shit. He’s so hot, it’s literally unfair. What am I meant to do with all that…man in my bed?
Well… You could… Stop it!
He sits and swings his legs off the sofa. ‘So, about last night…’
‘Good point. We should probably talk about it.’ I force my gaze back to my matcha.
’I’d say so, aye.’
I refuse to glance his way, but I hear his smirk.
‘It was…erm…exceptionally good sex.’ I take a gulp of matcha. ‘We’re unusually compatible in that area.’
‘Agreed.’ He saunters towards the counter, utterly unselfconscious about his state of undress.
He’s very, very naked and impressive even now. I know his other state, and I’m still sore from it.
‘You’re blushing, Theo. Any indecent thoughts you’d like to share?’ He leans against the counter next to me. Naked, mind you.
‘No. Why? No.’ I hand him the mug.
‘Cheers.’ He takes a cautious sip. ‘This is actually nice.’
‘So was last night… It was really fabulous sex.’
‘It was really fabulous everything,’ he corrects, voice dropping an octave.
The quiet certainty catches on something deep inside me.
‘I know.’ The words come out sharper than intended, so I soften my voice. ‘But this is still a temporary, mutually beneficial arrangement to save both our arses. We aren’t together-together, are we?’
‘The papers think we are boyfriend and girlfriend.’ He stretches again, a long, languid movement that shows off every sharp line of his torso. ‘So does my team.’
