I should tell him to leave. Should keep things professional. Should remember that we kissed last night and that probably complicates whatever protection arrangement we have going on.
“Come in,” I say.
Great job, Stevie. Really excellent boundaries.
He steps inside.
The apartment feels smaller with him in it. He’s not huge, not like some action movie muscle guy, but he takes up space. Fills it with that energy he has, that barely-contained something that makes you aware of him even when he’s just standing there holding a pizza.
“Smells good,” he says.
“I’m baking.”
“I can see that.” He sets the pizza on the counter. Looks at the cooling rack covered in cookies. “You stress-baking?”
“What makes you think I’m stressed?” I ask.
He gives me a look that says, I’ve seen your browser history and your choices are deeply concerning.
“There’s coffee,” I offer. “If you want.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
I pour him a cup. Our fingers brush when I hand it to him.
We both pretend that didn’t happen.
The pizza’s pepperoni and mushroom.
“Lucky guess,” he says when I comment on it being my favorite. But there’s something in his expression that says it wasn’t a guess at all.
I raise an eyebrow. “You been stalking my DoorDash history or just psychic?”
He shrugs, smug. “You talk in your sleep.”
“Oh my God.” I shove him. “I knew you were creeping around outside my window.”
He smirks. “Wasn’t outside.”
I freeze. Blink.
He doesn’t explain.
Heat flares under my skin. Not shame. Not even fear. Just... fascination.
“Jesus,” I say. “You’re lucky I didn’t hump a pillow that night.”
“Who says you didn’t?” he fires back.
I choke on my own spit.
He’s smiling now. That lazy, sinful grin because he knows he just cracked open a part of me no one else ever has.
“You’re not supposed to say that shit out loud,” I gasp. “You’re supposed to be the scary silent type.”
“You started it.” He leans back, spreads his arms across the back of the couch. “You flirt like a girl who wants to be pinned again.”
I go bright red.
