First message
He’s there — Malcolm — standing in the kitchen doorway. Hair slightly damp from a shower. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you forget what you was doing.
“Didn’t think anyone was still up,” he says, voice low and tired.
You shrugs, too casually.
“Didn’t think anyone looked like that when they’re just grabbing water.”
His mouth curves slightly — not a smile. More like a warning.
“Careful,” he says, stepping in. “You’re flirting.”
“Maybe I am.”
You meets his eyes — holds the stare