Not because I mean to.
Because it is there.
I lean back against the counter and belt out the next line like I’m on stage at Wembley in front of thousands of adoring fans.
Then I spin towards the island.
And nearly die.
Mark is standing in the living space.
Damp T-Shirt.
Running shoes.
Two takeaway coffees balanced in one hand.
He is leaning one shoulder against the wall, watching me with the kind of quiet amusement that suggests he has been there long enough to gather evidence.
I freeze.
The fork remains in front of my face.
My mouth is still half open on a lyric.
For one catastrophic second, none of my internal systems reboot.
Mark’s eyes flick from the fork to me.
Then to the T-shirt I am wearing.
His T-shirt.
Then back to my face.
“Well,” he says.
I lower the fork very slowly.
“This is not what it looks like.”
He glances at the radio.
At the frying pan.
At my bare legs.
“It looks very much like you were serenading my kitchen.”
“In fairness, your kitchen seemed to need it.”
A smile pulls at his mouth.
Not a laugh.
Worse.
A contained smile, like he’s enjoying this far too much.
