summary: A rebound date, a ghosting, and one very indecisive Iron Curtain kiss later
contains: alfie buttle x reader, alcohol consumption, mild injury
a/n: omg i've been waiting for this plotline for soooo long!!! the "True american" was so hard to write it took years off my life, but I hope you enjoy itt!!!
Thea let herself in, having apparently intimidated Chip into giving her the spare key in the short amount you’d lived with them, and dropped a duffel bag on your bed hard enough thud that you were fairly certain she’d overpacked.
“You texted me ‘they’re making me go out’ with zero context,” she said, already yanking the zip open, clothes spilling out in a wave of colour across your duvet, “so naturally I assumed that my help was needed.”
“I didn’t need saving, I just wanted your opinion on what to wear.”
“Same thing, honey.” She held a low-cut top against your chest, studying it with the critical eye of someone assessing a crime scene, then tsked as she tossed it onto the growing reject pile. “Also, who’s ‘they’? You said roommates, plural, like it’s a hostage situation.”
“It’s not a hostage situation. They decided I need to leave the flat and stop watching Titanic or La La Land.”
“Good,” Thea replied, but her mind was focused elsewhere as she held out another top, only for it to be discarded once again. “Still doesn’t tell me who’s actually making the decisions in this flat, though. There’s always a ringleader.”
From down the hall came the unmistakable rise of Alfie’s voice, thoroughly invested in convincing Chip that his trainers counted as acceptable footwear for a night out, Chip’s flat, unimpressed reply making it clear they very much did not.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it. “That one,” you said, without really meaning to say it out loud at all.
“Doesn’t matter.” You reached for the nearest top on the bed just to have something to do with your hands.
Thea didn’t say anything straight away. She just looked at you for a beat too long, something slow and knowing creeping across her face, which was somehow worse than if she’d actually said whatever she was thinking.
By the time you were ready, dress finally chosen after Thea vetoed roughly six other options; she’d also, somewhere in the middle of that chaos, decided that she was coming out with you and the boys.
“You’re not invited,” you told her, only half joking.
“I invited myself.” She was already reapplying her lipstick in your mirror, entirely unbothered. “Besides, someone needs to keep an eye out on you around a certain someone.”
“There is no ‘certain someone.’”
You found the other three waiting for you by the couch when you finally emerged. Alfie still mid-argument with Chip, tugging at the collar of the shirt that he had been forced to wear.
He caught the sight of you before you’d even said anything, and for a second, just a quick second, his eyes doing a quick, unmistakable once-over before he caught himself and looked away just as fast, clearing his throat, his hands settled on his collar entirely, like he’d forgotten what he was doing with them.
“Right,” he said, recovering quickly, though not quickly enough that you and Thea hadn’t noticed. “You scrub up well, don’t you.”
“High praise,” you said, aiming for dry and mostly landing it, ignoring the small, stupid flip your stomach gave in response.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Beside you, Thea’s eyebrows had shot somewhere near her hairline, and she opened her mouth, clearly about to say something devastating, before Cal, appearing from the kitchen with his keys already in hand, cut across the moment entirely.
“Cab’s outside,” he said, utterly unbothered by whatever undercurrent had just passed through the room. “Anyone dying to finish getting ready, or can we go?”
“We can go,” you said quickly, grabbing your bag and moving towards the door before Thea could utter a single word.
She stood beside you in the lift, leaning just enough that you could only hear, her voice drowned out by the banter between the three men. “So, that was subtle.”
“I have a lot of things I want to say,” she admitted, grinning, “but I’m saving them. For later. When there’s wine.”
The cab dropped you all outside a bar tucked down a narrow side street, the kind of place easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, string lights put up haphazardly across the ceiling inside, adding a warm, amber glow to the room. It was already loud, a low hum of chatter overlapping with the bar’s badly chosen playlist, with the occasional crack of a cue ball from the pool table near the back, glasses clinking somewhere behind the bar.
Chip headed straight for the counter, like a man on a mission, weaving through the crowd. Cal trailed after him at a far less urgent pace, hands in his pockets, clearly unbothered. Alfie held the door a beat longer than necessary for you and Thea, before following the other two, and you caught him glancing back once, checking you’d made it through the crowd okay, before disappearing toward the bar.
“Right,” Thea said, looping her arm through yours, scanning the room over. “Where do we want to sit?”
“Not anywhere. Somewhere good.” She steered you toward a free spot near the end of the bar, sliding onto the high stool, and flagged down a waiter before you’d even properly sat down.
The drinks arrived a few minutes later, something bright pink and suspiciously sweet, and by your third one, the sharp edges of the past few weeks had started to blur at the corners, the noise, the lights and Thea’s running commentary on nearly everyone who walked past making it easy, for the first time in a while, to just exist without thinking too hard about anything.
That’s when you noticed him. A few tables down, dark hair, a pint loosely held, watching you a beat too long before looking away when you caught him at it.
“Don’t look now,” Thea murmured, not even remotely subtle about it, elbowing you lightly, “but someone’s been staring for the last five minutes.”
You looked anyway, because of course you did.
He caught your eye properly this time and, rather than looking away again, raised his pint in your direction, an easy, small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Oh,” Thea said, delighted, practically vibrating in her seat. “This is happening.”
“Nothing’s happening, you’re overreacting.”
“Something’s about to happen. I have a very good eye for these things.”
He made his way over to your table a couple of minutes later, hands in his pockets, unhurried, weaving past a group by the pool table.
“Can I get you a drink,” he said, “or is that a line you’ve heard a thousand times tonight already?”
“Depends on how good the follow-up will be,” you said, surprising yourself slightly with how easily it came out.
“George,” he said, holding out a hand as if this was a business introduction.
“Nice to meet you, George. I’m reader,” you replied, a smile on your face.
Somewhere across the room, though you weren’t looking, weren’t going to look, you were fairly certain you could feel a very specific set of eyes staring at the back of your neck.
Getting ready for the actual date, three days later, was a considerably calmer affair than the bar night had been. Mostly because Thea had declared herself “off duty” and instead just supervised from your bed, scrolling through her phone and occasionally offering unsolicited commentary.
“Wear the dark blue one,” she said, not even looking up. “It matches your, I don’t know, whole vibe tonight.”
“Nervous but pretending not to be.”
“You’ve changed earrings twice.”
You ignored that comment, mostly because it was true, and finished getting ready with what felt like the right amount of effort, not so much that you looked like you were trying too hard, not so little that you didn’t care.
Walking through the living room on your way out, you found Alfie sprawled across the sofa, remote in hand, very deliberately not looking up as you passed, which was somehow more noticeable than if he had.
“Off to the date then?” he said, to the television rather than you.
“Yep,” you replied as you fiddled with your dress, your nervousness clearly showing.
“Right.” A pause, longer than it needed to be. “So what’s he do, then?”
“Right, ’course he is. Have fun, I suppose.”
“Text one of us if he’s weird,” Alfie shouted back just as you were about to close the door.
“He’s not going to be weird, Alfie.”
“They’re always weird eventually,” he said, finally looking over at you properly, something unreadable in his expression before he caught himself and turned back to the telly. “Just, y’know, safety and that.”
You didn’t respond to that, so you just grabbed your bag and left before you had a second to think about why your chest had gone slightly warm at the phrase “safety and that.”
The restaurant George had picked had actual tablecloths, low lighting, candles everywhere. The kind of place where conversation came easier than you’d expect, drifting from work to terrible classmates to some elaborate story about a disastrous trip that had you laughing from your chest rather than out of politeness.
“So what do you actually do?” he asked, topping up your glass with more wine without making a big show of it. “Beside surviving three roommates who apparently question you about your dates.”
“They don’t question me.”
“You mentioned one of them asked what I do for a living within ten seconds of hearing about tonight.”
“That’s just Alfie being Alfie,” you said, and found yourself smiling slightly at the thought of him despite yourself. “He’s weirdly protective, told me to have my phone at the ready.”
“Sounds like more than protective.”
“It’s not,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly, and changed the subject before he could push on it further, though something about the conversation lingered longer than it should’ve.
By the time the night had wound down, you’d checked your phone twice, entirely out of habit rather than actual need, and when he walked you to your apartment afterward, hand lightly against the small of your back, you found yourself thinking that maybe, this was exactly the kind of normal and uncomplicated thing you needed right now.
“I’ll text you,” he said, holding the door open.
“Looking forward to it,” you said, and meant it.
You came home practically glowing, and made the mistake of recapping the entire date in detail sitting on the kitchen island, tea in hand. Chip was half-listening while making tea for himself, Cal reading something on his phone, Alfie leaning against the fridge with an expression that suggested he was cataloguing every detail for later cross-examination.
“Did he pay?” Alfie asked, cutting you off before you’d even finished the story about the dessert.
“’Course he did.” A nod. “Big finance energy, that.”
“No no, no problem, just, you know? Vetting.”
“Vetting,” Cal repeated slowly, not looking up from his phone, a ghost of a smirk on his face. “Right. That’s what this is.”
“It’s basic friend due diligence.”
“You didn’t do any due diligence when I moved in,” you pointed out.
“That’s different, you had a folder with you.”
Chip, wisely, said nothing, though the look he exchanged with Cal spoke volumes.
The text came three days later. Or rather, it didn’t. You’d sent one, casual, not too pushy, something about getting drinks again sometimes soon, and watched that ‘delivered’ tag sit there, unanswered, for an increasingly humiliating stretch of time.
By day four, you were staring at the phone you’d thrown on the sofa with a specific, hollow kind of dread that came from knowing, deep down, exactly what it meant, and refusing to admit it out loud.
“He hasn’t replied,” you finally said, to nobody in particular.
Alfie, who had wandered in at exactly the wrong moment, paused. “Since when?”
“That’s not that long. People get busy.”
“He works a normal job, he’s not busy for three days straight.”
Alfie sat down slowly next to you, and for once, in the month and a bit that you’d known him, didn’t have an immediate joke at the ready. “He’s an idiot,” he said simply. “Finance bros. Told you.”
Alfie didn’t say anything for a moment, just shifted closer on the sofa and pulled you into a hug before you’d properly even registered what was happening, one arm looping around your shoulders, solid and warm. It was weirdly comforting being hugged by such huge arms, almost like being squished.
“He’s genuinely an idiot,” he said again, quieter this time, into the top of your head. “You know that, right? Nothing wrong with you. Some men are just idiots.”
You let yourself lean into it for a second longer than probably necessary, breathing in something that smelled like fabric softener and, faintly, the inside of his hoodie.
“Thanks,” you managed to mumble out into his shoulder.
“Don’t mention it.” A pause, his arm didn’t move. “Ever. To anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”
You laughed, voice muffled against him, and he squeezed your shoulder once more before letting go, clearing his throat like he needed to remind himself what normal distance looked like between you two.
The flat was quiet, properly quiet. The kind that a person would be concerned about if they were the only one in it. Cal had gone to pick up Josh and his girlfriend from somewhere, Alfie had disappeared to the gym, and you’d settled in for a night alone with a face mask and low expectations.
It was fine. It was completely fine, right up until the pipes groaned somewhere behind your bedroom wall with a long, low creak that sounded suspiciously like a door scratch, and you nearly levitated off of your bed.
“It’s just the pipes,” you said out loud, to nobody in particular, as if that would help in comforting you. “Old building, old pipes. That’s all that is.”
You were fully aware, in some detached, horror-movie-logic part of your brain, that you were doing the exact thing that every girl in every slasher film did right before something terrible happened to her, and yet you found yourself creeping toward the kitchen anyway to check the windows were locked for the third time, gripping the wooden spoon you’d grabbed for reasons you couldn’t entirely justify.
The sound of a key turning in the lock nearly sent you into orbit.
“Oh my god,” you said, spoon still raised as a makeshift weapon as the door swung open to reveal Cal, Chip, Alfie, and Sabina, all four of them stopped dead at the sight of you standing in the hallway mid-swing. You ran towards them and hugged Alfie and Josh with a thud as they stumbled a step back. “Finally. Thank god. I’ve been hearing noises for like an hour, I thought someone was breaking in, I was fully prepared to fight someone with a spoon.”
“With a spoon,” Cal repeated, deadpan, stepping past you into the flat.
“It was the only thing within reach!”
“It was the pipes,” Josh said gently, removing himself from the hug. “They do that, I keep telling you. Every building on this street does that, it’s ancient plumbing.”
Alfie was grinning at you in a way that suggested he wasn’t letting you forget this any time soon, but he didn’t say anything now, just squeezed your shoulder briefly on his way past.
“Right,” Alfie said, clapping his hands together, clearly delighted with what he was about to suggest. “Since someone’s had a near-death experience with the heating system of London, I think this calls for a distraction. Sabina, love, can you help me get the packs from the freezer?”
“What packs?” you asked, already slightly nervous about the answer.
“The beer we keep for True Brit,” Josh said, with the weary registration of a man who’d clearly lived through this before. “God help us all.”
The cans went up around the whiskey and vodka bottles in some vague, ever-shifting formation that Chip insisted had rules, though nobody could name them consistently twice, and within minutes the entire flat had descended into something between a drinking game and a full-scale drill.
“FLOOR’S LAVA,” Alfie bellowed, from somewhere on top of the kitchen chair, on hand braced against the wall.
“You said that ten minutes ago!”
“I’ll keep saying it until someone falls in!”
“THE QUEEN’S CORGIS,” Sabina screamed, entirely without warning, and everyone froze mid-motion, Cal caught with one leg extended over the ottoman, Josh halfway through pouring a shot, you yourself locked in an undignified crouch on the arm of the sofa.
“That’s not fair, I was mid-jump—”
“Rules don’t care about your jump, Cal.”
Someone shouted a name, then, half genuine British history and half completely invented on the spot. “WIMBLEDON,” Cal announced from flat on his back on the floor, having lost to the ottoman, and Sabina appeared above him with a bottle, pouring a shot directly into his open mouth while the rest of you cheered.
“That’s not even how the rules work,” Josh protested.
“I make the rules now,” Cal said, sitting up and wiping his chin. “Crowned via head injury. New law, effective immediately.”
“You can’t just declare laws, that’s not democratic—”
“IT’S THE PM’S PREROGATIVE,” Alfie shouted, still on his chair, apparently in support of literally anyone who wasn’t Chip.
The paper laws kept coming out of the box, each one read aloud by Sabina with theatrical seriousness while everyone else groaned or cheered depending on how it affected them personally. Anyone who says “innit” removes a sock. Anyone caught sitting names a Prime Minister or drinks. A whole five minutes was lost to Josh failing to name a single Prime Minister under pressure and being made to drink three times in a row as penance, Alfie howling with laughter the entire time. If someone shouts “God Save The King,” everyone must curtsy, badly, immediately. You lost what remained of your dignity attempting a full curtsy mid-lava-crossing while holding a lukewarm can, and were fairly sure Alfie got the whole thing on video, cackling the entire time from his perch on the chair.
“ELIZABETH THE FIRST,” you shouted back at him, entirely at random, mostly out of spite, and got a shot poured into your own mouth for the trouble you caused, coughing as Sabina cackled and Cal gave you a solemn nod of respect from the floor.
“DAVID ATTENBOROUGH,” Josh yelled a moment later, apparently determined to reclaim some dignity, and immediately tipped over a cushion mid-lunge toward the safe zone, sending an entire round worth of cans scattering across the carpet.
“THAT’S A FORFEIT ZONE,” Sabina screeched, delighted, as Josh groaned from the floor. “Sock. Off. Now.”
“I’ve already lost one sock—”
“Then it’s the other one, isn’t it?”
By the time the whiskey bottle was noticeably lighter and at least two socks had been sacrificed to the cause, Cal was slumped against the sofa reciting something increasingly nonsensical about the Magna Carta, Josh had lost track of how many Prime Ministers he’d successfully named, and you were laughing hard enough that your ribs ached, the entire flat a wreck of cushions and abandoned cans and half-shouted rules nobody could fully agree on anymore.
It was somewhere in the middle of that chaos that Josh pulled a folded slip from the box, unfolded it with exaggerated ceremony despite barely being able to focus on it, and read it aloud.
“Iron Curtain,” he announced, swaying slightly. “Whoever’s got the same number goes behind the door.”
The five of you sat in a circle on the kitchen island, hands ready to put up a number.
“ONE, TWO, THREE!” Josh screamed, and all of you held up numbers at once, fingers right near your forehead, as all of you looked around nervously.
You looked around and it took a second for it to actually register, three fingers, held up on your hand and, directly across from you, on Alfie’s. Your gaze snapped up to his at the exact same moment his found yours, his usual cheeky gring faltering just slightly before it reasserted itself, a little too quickly.
“Oh,” Josh said, glancing between you two, delighted. “Oh, no. Iron Curtain.”
The door shut behind you both, muffling the noise from the living room into a low, distant hum, leaving you standing in the narrow, dim hallway with Alfie a foot away, both of you suddenly aware of how small the space actually was. “Right,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “So.” “So.” “House rules and all that. Not really up to us, is it?” “No. Completely out of our hands.”
“Democratic process. Very binding.”
“Very binding,” you agreed. “Shame, really.” Neither of you moved. “We could just tell them we did it?” you offered.
“They’ll know. Cal always knows.” “How would he know?” “He just does. It’s bare unsettling.” Alfie exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Right. Let’s just get it over with, then.”
“Fine, yeah, quick, easy, no big deal.”
Neither of you moved again. It was somewhere in that stillness that you became suddenly, painfully aware of the ridiculous state of both your outfits, forfeits from earlier rounds neither of you had bothered to change out of, you in a poofy pink skirt, your bra, and a polka dot headband slightly askew, Alfie in your short red leather jacket, sleeves straining at the shoulders, and an eyemask with some girly floral print pushed up onto his forehead like a headband of his own. It should have killed the moment outright. Somehow, infuriatingly, it didn’t. “You are not moving,” you pointed out. “I’m building up to it.”
“How long does the build-up take?” “However long it takes, apparently.” He rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for something physical, which, given the state of the two of you after the game, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. “Right. Okay.”
“Okay.” “I’m going to do it now.”
He leaned in, then stopped himself halfway, squinting at you. “You’ve gone tense.” “I’ve not gone tense.” “Your whole face has gone tense, you look like you’re bracing for a jab at the doctor’s.” “That’s just my face, Alfie.” “It’s not usually like that.”
“How would you know what my face is usually like?”
“I look at you sometimes,” he said, entirely too casually, and you both seemed to realise what he’d said at the same time, an awkward beat passing where neither of you addressed it, the air in the narrow hallway going very still around the words he clearly hadn’t meant to let slip out loud.
“Right, well, don’t look at my face, then, look at literally anything else, and just do it.” “Fine. Doing it.” He stepped closer again, close enough that you could smell the leftover whiskey on his breath, mixed with something warmer underneath it, and his hand hovered somewhere near your jaw without quite landing, fingers curled slightly like he couldn’t decide what to do with them. “Actually, hang on, is this a closed-mouth situation or?” “Alfie!” “I’m asking a valid question!” “Just kiss me!” “I’m getting there!” “You’ve been getting there for actual minutes now, some countries have had elections in less time!”
“I don’t want to just lunge at you, that feels rude.”
“It is significantly less rude than whatever this is—”
“Fine! Fine, okay, I’m doing it, ready?”
He kissed you. It lasted approximately one second, stiff and off-angle, his nose bumping awkwardly against yours, before he pulled back with a small, pained noise, one hand coming up to rub at his own jaw like something had gone structurally wrong with it. “That was terrible,” he said, wincing. “That was awful,” you agreed, pressing the back of your hand briefly against your mouth, as if that might undo it. “Whose fault was that?” “Yours, you tilted the wrong way.” “I tilted a completely normal amount.” “You went right when I went right, that’s not how it works, one of us has to go left.” “Nobody told me the rules of which way to tilt!”
“It’s instinct, Alfie, it’s not meant to need rules.” “Right, fine, let’s just, again. Properly this time.” “Fine.”
He leaned in again, slower this time, and you both hesitated at the exact same moment, foreheads a breath apart, close enough that you could see the small furrow of concentration between his brows, and you let out an involuntary, slightly hysterical laugh that he immediately caught, some of the tension in his shoulders breaking for a second, his own mouth twitching despite himself. “Stop laughing.” “I’m not laughing.” “You’re absolutely laughing, I can feel you laughing.” “You can’t feel someone laughing.”
“I very much can, you’re vibrating, it’s put me off completely now!” “I’m sorry, I don’t know why this is funny!”
“It’s not meant to be funny, this is meant to be normal, this happens to people all the time, kissing is a completely normal human activity that people do successfully every single day—” “Then do it normally.”
He huffed out something between a laugh and a groan, stepping back half a pace, running both hands down his face like he was trying to physically reset something in himself. The hallway light caught the side of his face for a second, and underneath the joking, you could see something else flickering there too, something he didn’t quite have words for yet. “Right. New approach. We do it properly, no talking, no tilting discourse, nothing. Just—” “Just kiss me, Alfie.”
Something in his expression shifted at that, the joking edge slipping away entirely, replaced by something quieter and far more uncertain than you’d ever seen on him before, his hand falling back to his side like it had lost its purpose.
“No,” he said, voice low. “Not like this.” You blinked, the sudden change in his tone catching you off guard.
“I don’t— that’s not— uncomfortable—” He dragged a hand through his hair again, the motion agitated now, refusing to properly meet your eyes, his usual easy rhythm gone completely. “It’s stupid. Forget I said anything. It’s just a game, we don’t have to…”
“Alfie, what does that mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” He was already turning for the door, hand closing around the handle, knuckles pale against the wood. “Night.”
“Night,” he said again, firmer this time, and pulled the door open, the noise of the living room spilling back in around the both of you.
You didn’t sleep much after that, lying in the dark replaying the whole ridiculous exchange, the missed kiss, the almost-real one, the way his voice had dropped when he said not like this, like it meant something he hadn’t planned on admitting out loud. By the time you finally drifted off, it was gone three, the last of the whiskey buzz fading into a heavy, restless kind of sleep.
You woke sometime later to the flat gone properly quiet, the kind of silence that felt different when you were half-convinced you weren’t actually alone in it. You lay still for a moment, heart already going faster than it should have been, telling yourself it was nothing, the whole flat had settled down hours ago, everyone gone to bed after the game finally wound itself out.
Then it came again. A soft creak from somewhere near the hallway, followed by something that might have been a footstep, might have been the pipes doing their usual nonsense, might have been your own overtired brain filling in gaps that weren't actually there.
“Not again,” you muttered to the ceiling, already sitting up despite yourself, blanket falling away as you swung your legs over the side of the bed.
You crept out into the corridor barefoot, phone gripped loosely in one hand out of habit rather than any real plan for what you’d do with it, and made it a few steps down the dark hallway before a door creaked open ahead of you, and you very nearly screamed.
“Whoa, hey, it’s me,” Alfie said quickly, hands up, hair sticking up on one side like he’d properly been asleep only a few minutes ago, an old t-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder. “Heard something. Thought I’d check.”
“Right.” He glanced past you into the dark hallway, then back, and you were both close enough now, in the narrow space, that you could see he wasn’t entirely steady either, whether from sleep or the leftover whiskey from earlier you honestly couldn’t tell.
“So it was probably just the pipes, then,” you said, some of the earlier tension dissolving into something lighter now that the panic had worn off, both of you still a little bleary from sleep and leftover whiskey.
“Has to be. Nothing else groans like that in this flat except Josh’s knees.”
“It’s an accurate blow. Man sounds like a haunted house going up the stairs.”
You laughed, quiet enough not to wake anyone, and he grinned properly now, the earlier awkwardness from the hallway seeming to fade into something easier between you both, just the two of you standing there in the dark in old pajamas, laughing about nothing in particular.
“Right,” you said eventually, stifling a yawn. “I’m going back to bed before I properly convince myself the fridge is sentient.”
You turned, already half facing your own door, when his hand closed gently around your wrist, and before you’d fully registered it, he’d turned you back around to face him properly, close now, closer than either of you had been all night.
He didn’t say anything else. He just kissed you, slow and sure, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, the other still loosely holding your wrist like he hadn’t quite decided to let go of it yet. It was nothing like the fumbling, laughing disaster from earlier in the hallway, no stalling, no commentary, just steady and certain in a way that made your breath catch somewhere in your chest.
When he finally pulled back, just far enough to rest his forehead lightly against yours, you were both a little breathless, and he huffed out something that was almost a laugh.
“That’s what I meant,” he murmured.
You blinked up at him, still processing the fact that your legs felt distinctly unreliable. “Took you long enough.”
“Had to get the timing right.” His thumb brushed once, gently, against your cheekbone before he finally stepped back, the reluctance plain on his face. “Night, properly this time.”
“Night,” you managed, and stood there in the hallway long after his door clicked shut, fingers pressed lightly to your own lips, entirely unable to wipe the smile off your face.
