date: sometime in june time: 9:30 pm location: will and ingrid’s flat interaction: will & ingrid

Since when the hell does William Nirav Parekh walk home thinking about the feeling of one specific date’s—who he found on a fucking app, at that—lips on his lips? Because, right now, as his feet drag him up the steps to the door of the flat, that’s all he can think about: that sweet little press of their mouths before turning separate ways to their respective places.

Date three in the books, and they still haven’t screwed. This is an anomaly; it should be a scientific impossibility for two people to be this attracted to each other and not have ripped each other’s clothes off already.

Not to mention the fact they’d gone miniature golfing. That meant they were stone cold sober for the entire night, laughing at Milo’s clumsy attempts at swinging a golf club as he repeatedly reiterated “I told you I was no good at this.” And Will had crept up behind him, arms wrapping around Milo’s, hands settling over his, guiding him, speaking softly into his ear at nearly every hole... And they walked away without exchanging more than a little peck of the lips.

He would groan as he swings the front door open, but he’s not entirely sure he has an audience to hear it. That is until he looks up and finds Ingrid sitting at the kitchen table, and a wave of relief washes over him. It’s only 9:30pm, after all. He hadn’t expected her to be asleep.

Will slumps into a chair, perfectly composed, until he wipes and hand down his face and whines. “Ingrid, he is wasting me. Wasting me! Tell me how the fuck you go on a date, have a guy you’re into all over you all night, and not even ask to go home with him? How is that even possible?”