Page 116 of Game Misconduct

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She walks further into my place, giving it a once-over. “Place looks good.”

“I cleaned,” I say.

She turns, amused. “For me?”

“No,” I deadpan. “For the wine.”

Her laugh spills out—light and unguarded—and it does something to me.

A reminder of that morning in her kitchen, barefoot and radiant in the aftermath of everything we didn’t say.

I clear my throat. “Dinner’s on the way. From Charred. Hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay. That mac and cheese is borderline erotic.”

“Good thing I ordered it.”

She flashes a smile and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You nervous?”

I don’t answer right away.

Because yeah, I fucking am.

This isn’t sex. This is worse. This is her in my space with no game plan. No walls between us.

Just…here.

“Maybe,” I admit. “You?”

She nods. “A little.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

Then she lifts the wine bottle. “You got a corkscrew?”

“Drawer by the sink.”

She moves into the kitchen like she belongs there, and Ifollow. Watching her struggle with the cork for a second before I step in behind her.

“Let me.”

Her fingers graze mine as she hands it over, and I feel the contact in my chest.

When I get the cork free, she holds out two glasses from the cabinet without needing direction.

I pour. She hands one back.

“Toast?” she asks, tilting her glass toward mine.

I pause.

“To doing this differently,” I say.

Our glasses clink.

And for a second, her eyes soften in a way I’m not ready for.

But I don’t look away.

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