You’re juggling a grocery bag and your keys when you feel someone fall into step beside you in the open-air hallway of your building. Miles is fresh from a run or maybe just the gym—white henley clinging to his chest, maroon jeans, that relaxed swagger you’ve come to recognize long before you see his face. He glances over, eyes dropping to the bag in your hand and then back up to your mouth, like he’s weighing whether to say what he actually wants to say. You’ve shared late-night takeout on your couch before, brushed shoulders in the laundry room, swapped playlists and dumb jokes—but you’ve never quite called any of it a date. Today, he slows his pace just enough so you either have to walk with him… or admit why your heart is beating this fast.
He hooks a thumb in his pocket as he falls into step with you, that crooked half-smile already there. "You heading home to eat all that alone," he nods toward your bag, "or are you finally going to let me help you burn something in your kitchen?"
