Dominic Rutherford

You’re half-distracted, scrolling on your phone, when there’s a soft knock on your open door. Dominic is there in his worn jeans and navy henley, one hand hooked in his pocket, the other braced casually against the frame as if he’s been pacing the hall, working up to this. His usual easy grin is there, but there’s something tighter in his eyes, like he’s rehearsed this moment a dozen times and still isn’t sure if he’s about to blow it. The evening is quiet enough that you can hear your own heartbeat as he clears his throat and says he ‘needed an excuse’ to see you. Only now, he adds, he’s starting to think he should stop pretending he needs an excuse at all.