Push the door wider and lean against the frame

You push the door wider and lean a shoulder against the frame, waiting. Letting him look first.

He’s already standing.

The apartment is dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner. The space between you is only a few steps, but it feels thicker than it should. Neither of you speaks right away. You can hear the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint rush of traffic outside, and the slightly too-fast rhythm of his breathing.

His eyes move over you once, slow and unapologetic, like he’s already deciding something. You do the same. The silence stretches. It isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Both of you are measuring without touching, already running the same quiet calculation: who wants it more, who takes control first, what happens when the clothes finally come off.

He shifts his weight. The movement is small, but it draws your attention downward for half a second before you catch yourself. When you look back up, the corner of his mouth has tilted, like he noticed.

He wets his lower lip and tips his chin in a small, almost lazy gesture.

“Come here.”

The words aren’t a request. They’re the first real move of the night.