He's in the kitchen.
Henry grabs a juice box from the fridge and disappears back toward the living room without ceremony, leaving me alone with Arthur.
I reach for a glass from the cabinet, my fingers slightly unsteady as I grasp the smooth surface.
The tap water runs cold as I fill it, each second stretching longer than it should while I become hyperaware of Arthur's presence behind me.
He's moved closer. Close enough that the kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.
I can sense him watching me, the weight of his attention like a physical thing settling across my shoulders.
When I turn slightly, water glass in hand, he's there—closer than I expected, close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes.
"You're good with him," Arthur says quietly, his voice lower than usual, more careful.
I glance at him fully now, surprised by the sincerity threading through his words.
There's something vulnerable in his expression, a crack in that carefully maintained composure that makes my chest tight.
"He's easy to be good with," I reply, meaning it completely.
Arthur doesn't respond immediately. His gaze holds mine—steady, searching, like he's trying to solve an equation that keeps shifting variables just when he thinks he's found the answer.
"He doesn't relax like that," Arthur says finally, his voice barely above a murmur. "Not often. Not with..." He pauses, seeming to weigh his words. "Not with anyone, really."
"Maybe he just needed someone who takes video games seriously," I say, attempting lightness even as something deeper settles in my chest at his admission.
The corner of his mouth lifts—barely there, but genuine. "Maybe."
I should step back. Put distance between us.
Reestablish the boundaries that keep this arrangement functional and safe and uncomplicated.
My rational mind is practically shouting the suggestion, reminding me of every reason why this moment is dangerous territory.
But I don't move.
Neither does he.
Arthur shifts slightly—closer, just a fraction, as if drawn by some invisible force.
He's close enough now that I can see the individual flecks of lighter brown scattered through his dark eyes, like gold dust caught in shadow.
Close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne. Clean and expensive and utterly him that makes me want to lean closer still.
The water glass in my hand grows slick with condensation, but I barely notice.
I feel the pull to lean in.
The world narrows down to this kitchen, this pause, this realization that whatever we agreed to—whatever careful arrangement we thought we'd established—isn't what's actually happening between us.
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat that makes my breath catch.
My pulse stutters, then races.
He leans in just slightly, testing, careful, like he's giving me every opportunity to step away—
Then—
