I shook my head, hoping to God this wasn’t going to make him bolt.
But he only grinned as his hands fell away, leaving the air between us suddenly colder. “Yeah. I figured.” His gaze softened. “You don’t seem like the type.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that.
My hand stayed at his waist, unsteady, my eyes dropping to it. “How about you?”
When I looked up, his expression had gone still, making my pulse trip over itself.
“I’m not that type either,” he said.
That surprised me enough that I opened my mouth to ask more—but he stepped back before I could.
“So,” he said lightly, already turning. “Shower. Then food.”
I stood there for a second after, the echo of his mouth still on mine, my body slow to catch up with reality. My lips felt warm, touched. It wasn’t just the kiss—though, fuck, it had been good—it was the way he’d looked at me.
As I led him down the hall, my pulse still off-kilter, I knew something had shifted. Even if I didn’t know what it meant yet.
By the time we were both clean and dry, the air in the apartment felt different. More comfortable. Lived in. But it wasn’t the place—it was us.
Danny sat on the couch, hair still damp, one leg tucked under him, the sandwich balanced in his hands like it was something fragile. He glanced up once, excitement practically vibrating off him, before digging in.
His eyes went wide as he chewed. “Fuck,” he said around the bite. “That’s really good.”
A laugh slipped out of me as pride settled in my chest. “Yeah?”
Another bite, followed by a nod. Watching him eat made me take a second look at my own food, appreciating it through his reaction. Most days at home meant grabbing whatever was quick and ready—the curse of a cook—but this meal had been a fixation for months. Croissant rolls. Homemade smoked pork. Camembert. A tomato jam that leaned just a little too spicy. Perfect.
“Did you make all of this?” he asked when he was halfway through.
“Everything but the rolls. Lani made those. We keep them frozen, ready to go.”
“Handy.” He took another big bite, little flakes clinging to his lips and fingers, making a mess as he went.
That made me smile. I loved people who ate like this—no hesitation, no fuss, just enjoying the hell out of it. My leg stretched closer to his along the couch. Danny didn’t even look, just shifted naturally, moving closer too.
After wiping my hand on a napkin, I found the back of his neck. When his mouth curved into a smile, my fingers stayed there, absently playing with his hair as I finished eating.
“You’re a touchy person, right?”
For a second, I almost pulled my hand away—but one look at my face made him scoot closer instead, hooking his ankle around mine.
“That’s a good thing,” he said. “In my book. I’m like that too.”
Something in me eased. My fingers skimmed his skin, my thumb brushing behind his velvety-soft earlobe. He made a low, content sound, and I wasn’t sure if it was still about the food.
As soon as he finished, he jumped off the couch and into the kitchen, taking the dish right out of my hand. Water started running behind me. I took a sip of my soda and watched him over my shoulder.
“Everything’s so neat in here,” he called. “You should see my room. Or—actually—don’t. I’d be very fucking embarrassed right now.”
“We’re used to cleaning up after ourselves,” I said. “Kind of necessary when this many people live here.”
“Close to the resort, too. Smart. I’ve heard most people commute, like, an hour.”
The water shut off.
“Yeah. That’s usually how it goes.”
