Breaking in the apartment

The apartment building was a modest brick structure with a dark green awning over the entrance and a small lobby that smelled faintly of cleaning products and someone's cooking. Samantha led him to the elevator, and they rode up to the third floor in silence, both of them suddenly shy now that the moment had arrived. Harry's suitcase wheels squeaked against the hallway floor as they approached apartment 3C, and he watched Samantha's hands tremble slightly as she fitted the key into the lock.

"Welcome home," Samantha said, pushing the door open. "I know it's not much, but—"

"It's perfect," Harry interrupted, stepping inside and immediately understanding why she'd been so excited about the place.

The apartment was spacious in a way his London flat had never been, with an open-plan living room and kitchen area bathed in afternoon light from large windows overlooking the street. The floors were real hardwood instead of the cheap laminate he was used to, and the walls were painted a warm cream color that made the whole space feel inviting. A dark grey sofa sat against one wall facing a TV that was larger than anything Harry had ever owned, and there were built-in bookshelves flanking a decorative fireplace that probably didn't work but looked nice anyway.

"The windows are south-facing, so we get great light in the afternoon," Samantha was saying, walking him through the space with the nervous energy of someone **** for approval. "And the kitchen—I know you said you like to cook, so I made sure it had decent counter space."

Harry followed her into the kitchen area and felt his eyebrows rise. Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances that looked relatively new, and actual cupboard space instead of the tiny cabinets from his London flat. It was the kind of kitchen he'd fantasized about having someday when he was more settled, more adult, more successful. And here it was, in an apartment he'd be sharing with a woman he'd known for two months.

"It's brilliant," Harry said honestly. "Really, Sam, you did amazing."

Her shoulders relaxed at the praise, and she smiled properly for the first time since they'd entered the apartment. "There's a second bedroom down the hall that I thought we could use as an office or whatever. And the bathroom's there—it's not huge but it has a proper shower with good water pressure, which seemed important."

"Very important," Harry agreed, following her as she continued the tour.

But then they reached the bedroom, and both of them stopped in the doorway.

The room was painted a soft blue-grey, with the same large windows as the living room letting in streams of afternoon light. There was a dresser against one wall, a closet with sliding doors, and dominating the space—impossible to ignore or downplay—was a king-sized bed with a dark wooden frame and crisp white linens that looked like they'd been recently purchased.

Harry felt his face flush hot, and beside him, Samantha made a small sound that might have been a laugh or a groan. The bed was enormous, taking up most of the room, and it was immediately obvious that this was where they'd both be sleeping. Together. In the same bed. Starting tonight.

"I, uh," Samantha started, her voice coming out slightly strangled. "The place came furnished and this was already here, and I thought about getting a different bed but it seemed stupid to replace a perfectly good one, and I figured we're adults and we can handle sleeping in the same—"

"It's fine," Harry interrupted, trying to sound casual even though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "It's a nice bed. Very big. Plenty of room for both of us. With space. Between us. If we want space."

"Right, lots of space," Samantha agreed quickly. "Like an ocean of space. A bed ocean."

They stood there for another awkward moment, both staring at the bed like it might bite them. Harry could feel the heat radiating from Samantha's body where she stood close beside him, could hear her breathing had gone slightly shallow. His cock stirred in his jeans—just a twitch, nothing serious yet, but he was acutely aware that in a few hours he'd be lying in that bed with her just inches away.

"I should probably unpack," Harry said, tearing his gaze away from the bed. "Get settled in before I completely crash from jet lag."

"Right, yes, good idea," Samantha said, stepping back to give him room to enter. "I'll just... I'll be in the living room if you need anything. Take your time."

She retreated quickly, and Harry heard her footsteps fade down the hallway. He stood alone in the bedroom for a moment, then pulled his suitcase inside and closed the door most of the way—not latched, but enough to give himself some privacy and breathing room.

The unpacking process was strange and intimate in ways Harry hadn't anticipated. He'd lived alone for years, had become accustomed to his space being entirely his own. Now every item he removed from his suitcase felt like a tiny invasion of Samantha's territory. He hung his clothes in the closet beside her things—his button-downs next to her blouses, his jeans folded on a shelf above her sweaters. His trainers lined up next to her smaller shoes by the bedroom door.

"Your stomach just growled so loud I heard it from the living room," Samantha's voice came from the hallway, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "I was thinking I'd make dinner? Nothing fancy, just pasta. If you want."

Harry opened the door to find her standing in the hallway, her ponytail slightly messy now, her green eyes warm with concern. His stomach chose that moment to growl again, loud and persistent, and they both laughed.

"Pasta sounds perfect," Harry said. "I'm starving, actually. Airplane food doesn't count as real food."

"Go finish unpacking," Samantha said. "I'll call you when it's ready."

***

Samantha stood at the stove with her back to him, and Harry paused in the kitchen doorway to watch her for a moment before announcing his presence. She'd tied an apron around her waist—one with an absurd pattern of cartoon cats that made him smile—and she was stirring a pot of pasta with intense concentration, like the fate of the world depended on achieving the perfect al dente texture. Her hips swayed slightly to music only she could hear, and strands of hair had escaped her ponytail to curl against her neck.

"Need any help?" Harry asked, and Samantha startled slightly, turning to face him with the wooden spoon still in her hand.

"Jesus, you're quiet," she said with a breathless laugh. "I didn't hear you come in. And no, I've got it. It's just spaghetti, nothing complicated. Though I did add some garlic and red pepper flakes to the sauce because plain marinara is depressing."

"Fancy," Harry said, moving into the kitchen to lean against the counter beside the stove. "I'm impressed."

"Don't be too impressed until you've tasted it," Samantha warned. "I'm a competent cook at best. Like, I can follow a recipe and nothing catches fire, but I'm not winning any awards."

Harry set the dining table—a small round thing with only two chairs that made the apartment feel cozy rather than cramped—and then collapsed into one of them with a groan that was only partially exaggerated. His body was finally catching up with the time zone change, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that made everything feel slightly surreal.

"You look knackered," Samantha observed, bringing over two plates piled high with spaghetti and setting one in front of him. "When's the last time you actually slept?"

"Define slept," Harry said, picking up his fork. "I dozed on the plane but that doesn't really count, does it?"

"Not even a little bit," Samantha agreed, taking the seat across from him. She twisted her fork in the pasta, gathering a reasonable amount before lifting it to her mouth. Harry watched her lips close around the fork, watched her tongue dart out to catch a bit of sauce, and felt that familiar surge of blood heading south.

He **** his attention to his own plate, taking a bite of pasta that was actually really good—perfectly cooked noodles with sauce that had just the right amount of kick from the red pepper flakes. "This is brilliant," he said around his mouthful. "Seriously, you undersold your cooking skills."

Samantha's face lit up with pleasure at the compliment. "Yeah? You're not just saying that because you're too tired to know what you're eating?"

"It's true," Harry insisted, taking another large bite to prove his point. "Best meal I've had in ages. Airplane food was tragic, and I've been living off meal deals and kebabs for the past few weeks while packing."

"That's depressing," Samantha said. "We should make a rule about cooking actual meals. Like, at least four times a week. The rest of the time we can be lazy and order takeaway, but we need some nutritional standards."

"Deal," Harry agreed immediately.

Their conversation flowed easily as they ate, discussing their plans for the coming days. Tomorrow they'd need to go grocery shopping—actually stock the fridge and pantry instead of just having emergency pasta. Samantha wanted to show him around the neighborhood, introduce him to the good coffee shop and the decent Thai place and the bookstore she'd already discovered. Harry needed to set up his laptop properly and start researching job opportunities, though Dr. Genet's payments meant he didn't need to rush into anything immediately.

"We should also figure out our first report for Dr. Genet," Samantha said, twirling more pasta on her fork. "He wants weekly updates, right? What do we even tell him?"

"That we haven't killed each other yet?" Harry suggested. "That seems like a positive sign for genetic compatibility."

"Very scientific," Samantha said with a grin. "I'm sure that's exactly the kind of data he's looking for. 'Day one: No homicide. Research continues.'"

When they had had their fill, she stood and started collecting their plates, and Harry moved to help despite his exhaustion. They worked together clearing the table, Harry scraping dishes while Samantha loaded the dishwasher. Every time they passed each other in the small kitchen space, their bodies would brush—his hip against hers, her shoulder pressing briefly against his chest, their hands colliding when reaching for the same dish.

By the time they finished cleaning up, Harry's cock had gone from interested to insistent, creating an obvious bulge in his jeans that he tried unsuccessfully to hide. His exhaustion was making it harder to control his body's responses—everything felt heightened and immediate, the normal filters worn away by lack of sleep.

Samantha's nipples were visible through her sweater again, two points pressing against the fabric that she didn't seem aware of. Or maybe she was aware but didn't know how to address it, the same way Harry didn't know how to address his erection. They were two adults living together, attracted to each other, and their bodies were responding accordingly.

"I should probably sleep," Harry said finally, leaning against the counter because standing upright was becoming difficult. "Before I collapse right here in your kitchen."

"Our kitchen," Samantha corrected gently. "And yeah, you look like you're about to fall over. Go to bed. I'll clean up the rest of this."

"You sure?" Harry asked, though he was already moving toward the hallway. "I can help—"

"I'm sure," Samantha interrupted. "You moved across an ocean today. You've earned some rest."

Harry nodded and headed toward the bedroom, acutely aware of Samantha's eyes on him as he walked away. At the doorway he paused and looked back. She was standing at the sink, dish towel in hand, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"Thanks for dinner," Harry said. "And for, you know, all of this. The apartment, picking me up from the airport, making me feel welcome. I know this is weird for both of us but you're making it less weird."

"That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," Samantha replied with a soft smile.

Harry disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door most of the way, leaving it open just a crack. He could hear Samantha moving around in the kitchen, the gentle sounds of dishes being washed and put away. It was comforting and domestic, and as he changed into his sleep clothes—just his regular boxer briefs, saving the lucky ones for another night—he felt some of his anxiety drain away.