Mostly.
They saya walk after meals is good for you.
So I set out on the trail to get exercise and closure by returning borrowed property like a responsible adult.
I knock on his door again.
No answer.
I exhale.Okay. Fine.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
I walk home, make tea, and stare out the window for an unreasonable amount of time. I do a load of laundry, fold it, and put it away. I unload the dishwasher, then reload it.
Out of sheer boredom and spiraling anxiety, I decide I deserve one more walk.
It’s for my mental health.
It’s six o’clock when I set out, moving briskly. The sun is setting, and the air is damp, like maybe it’ll snow. Showing up in the dark and snow... well, it’s not a great look.
I’m slightly out of breath when I cut through the yard and around the side of the house to the front door. I blow out a breath before I raise my hand and knock.
My heart pounds immediately, because this time, there are footsteps.
My mouth goes dry.
The porch light flicks on, the door opens... and there he is.
Sebastian stands barefoot in the doorway, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants and a look of mild confusion.
My eyes roam over a muscular chest, broad shoulders, and defined arms. A faint dusting of dark hair leads to the waistband of his sweatpants that I absolutely do not stare at. At all.
For the first time in my life, words abandon me completely.
He clears his throat, which jolts some life back into me.
“Oh—yeah—hi,” I manage, waving like we’re neighbors who’ve known each other forever. “I just wanted to return your sweatshirt.”
His gaze drops to my empty hands.
Then lifts.
Then drops again.
“My… non-existent sweatshirt?” he asks slowly.
Heat floods my face.
“Oh.” I glance down at my hands, a fiery blush spreading. “Oops.”
His brow creases.
“I seem to have,” I continue, mortified, “left for my walk without it.”
Silence.
