But what I wanted wasn’t the point.
Théo kissed me and then ran. That told me enough—he was spooked. Confused. Maybe already regretting it.
So tonight wasn’t about me.
When he came over—ifhe came over—I’d make it simple. No pressure. No expectations. No cornering him the second he walked in.
If he wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, I’d let him. If he wanted to talk, I’d listen. If he wanted to leave, I’d walk him to the door like it didn’t cost me anything.
Whatever he needed.
That was the only way this worked.
???
Théo had a key but he still knocked, which sent an excitable Aspen scrambling to the door, nails clicking against the hardwood. I took a breath before opening it.
His hair was still damp, humidity curling it around his ears and the nape of his neck. Long sleeved t-shirt, track pants, hands buried in the pockets, drawstrings hanging low. He looked like he belonged somewhere infinitely cooler than my doorway—a warehouse party, a rooftop in Brooklyn, anywhere with exposed brick and a curated playlist.
“Hey,” I said, stepping aside.
He didn’t answer—just dropped to one knee to greet Aspen. His hands moved through the fur like he knew exactly what he was doing, scratching behind the ears, rubbing the chest. Aspen practically melted. When he’d had his fill, he hopped back onto the couch, satisfied.
“Want something to drink?” I asked, heading for the kitchen. “I restocked. Lemonade, raspberry sparkling water, beer.”
“Sparkling water,” he said.
I handed him the can and grabbed a beer for myself. Liquid courage.
He sat on a barstool at the counter, posture too straight, both hands around the can like it was an anchor. I leaned onthe opposite counter. The island sat between us like neutral territory.
He took a sip. Set the can down carefully.
“So… about this morning.” His voice went flat in that way that meant he was trying to keep it contained. “I was a bitch. I had a call with my best friend last night about my—” he paused, jaw tightening “—situation. It’s been stewing. I took it out on you.”
I blinked. “You’re apologizing.”
“Kinda. I guess.” He stared at the can. “You didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry.”
I let that sit for a beat. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I forgive you.”
His eyes flicked up, then away, like he couldn’t bear to meet my eyes for too long.
“But I thought you were coming over to talk about the other thing,” I added.
“It was impulsive. A moment of passion.”
My chest went hollow. “So you didn’t mean it.”
He looked at me then—expression smooth, rehearsed. “Isn’t your curiosity satisfied? There’s nothing more to me. What you see is what you get. I’m pretty fucking shallow.”
He slid off the stool as he said it, like he was preparing to leave. But he didn’t move toward the door. We stood in my kitchen, close enough that I could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Neither of us said anything for what felt like a full minute.
“I don’t do this,” he said finally. “Whatever this is. I don’t—” He stopped, eyes flicking to the floor.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Stop saying that.” A flash of frustration. “Stop being so fucking understanding. It’s unnerving.”
