and looks up at me.
“It’s kind of weird to stay in someone’s place, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Not usually. Flat sharing is great, and cheap, and you’re not stuck in hostels.” Ajay points up. “But occasionally you’ll have a two-meter-long picture of the host’s grandchild hanging above your bed.”
I laugh and continue walking through the hallway. Pictures of a family line the wall, and it makes me feel a little weird. The second bedroom up here is much smaller—just a double-size bed fits with a small dresser and not much else. Pierce has been in this room for less than a minute, and the whole place smells like him. It’s impressive. I turn to see a travel-size bottle of cologne on the dresser. When I bring it to my nose, it starts to make sense—he must’ve given himself a spritz before he came back downstairs.
And then his hand is on my shoulder.
He pulls back, gently, and I turn to him. He has a mug of tea in his hand, and he raises it to me.
“Have you actually had tea before? I mean, real, properly steeped tea with milk and sugar?”
“My mom usually microwaves her water and dunks the tea bag in.” I smile. “Is that not how you do it?”
He throws his head back, sloshing some of the tea on the floor. “Your mum is evil. Americans are the worst.”
“I’m joking. My mom may be a coffee convert, but she is Irish after all.” I roll my eyes. “I did a ton of research on how to fit in here, and I came across this three-thousand-word rant by some Brit about how Americans ruin tea. I thought I’d test the waters. Turns out all British people are just as intense.”
He brings the tea to my lips. The tan liquid rises toward me, and I think this is an intimate moment where I should be sensual and turned on, but I’m really just worried about him burning my face with this hot water.
But he’s careful about it. He presses the rim of the mug to my lips, and he tips it toward me, slightly, until the liquid meets my mouth. I take in a sip. He pulls away.
It’s warm, comforting. A hint of that bitter, earthy tea flavor cuts through, but it’s softened with a brush of sweetness. It’s something I could get used to.
He sets the mug down on the dresser and puts his arms around my neck. He looks up at me, and we stand there like we’re about to get taken out of a high school dance for pressing our bodies too closely together. And I kind of want to sway back and forth, to dance with him. To redo my one prom night and take him. He’d look damn good in a tux.
My breaths get heavy, and he puts his head on my chest.
“I know how to pick who’s most comfortable.”
It echoes through my mind, and I can’t get it out. I can’t let this moment pass, but I can’t put my guard down. I can’t let him hurt me when I’m hurting myself enough as it is.
I gently push him off me, and he looks into my eyes. And I get lost in his, which is a supremely cliché thing to say, but have you ever actually looked at someone’s eyes? I refuse to believe anyone else has eyes like his, shades of brown and green and a million new colors in between.
I’m falling deep, and he’s not stopping me. I don’t have anyone to tell me what to do. Do I kiss him? Do I stay with him? How do I stop myself from getting hurt? Why is there not a guidebook, an easy resource I can google to tell me how to rationalize what I’m feeling? Help me help me he’s too cute and too nice and his lips are too soft and I can’t I can’t but maybe I can.
I bring my lips to his, and I fall.
He closes the door. He presses into me with such force that I step backward. I take small steps back, knowing what lies behind me. But I don’t want to stop. I pull his face closer, and he wraps his arms around my waist. Then I fall, this time literally, onto the bed.
I lean back, elbows propping me up on the bed. He stares at me in consideration. Is he trying to read me? The messages my face might send could range from “I very much like