#vernon... sniff... vern....

The conversation drips into something mellow and sweet, the taste of honey on your lips. Honestly, you and Vernon are a lot closer than you thought you’d be; when he’d first moved in and he was more of a friend-of-a-friend, you didn’t see yourself getting along with him. He was hard to read and too quiet for you to feel like you were making any progress… but it just took some time, really. You learned to make a few of his favorite foods and he sent you music recommendations, and before long the two of you were taking trips to the pet store together to fawn over the cats.

It’s easy and comfortable when your late-night talk melts into nothing, the two of you finishing your respective “meals” in the quiet of your apartment, save for the hum of the air conditioning. As you’re throwing away the wrapper to your snack you realize that you don’t really feel much better about sleeping, and you try to rack your brain for another option that might magically make you pass out.

And then Vernon says, through the quiet, “hey. Dance with me.”

He’s around your side of the kitchen island to put his empty bowl in the sink, and even in the unflattering light he looks serious. A little embarrassed, maybe, but he doesn’t seem like the type of person to do these types of things, so you respond, “but… there’s no music.”

He shrugs, a small smile on his face. “I don’t mind. Do you?”

You don’t know. A part of you has always wanted the cliche dancing-in-the-kitchen-in-our-pajamas experience, the midnight talks and gentle giggles shared under low light. You just didn’t really expect it to be with your best friend.

Either way, you think, it’ll be fun.

So you take his hand and it’s lacking a groove, Vernon steps on your feet and you step on his, but you manage to lead the both of you into a rhythm, laughing a little once you finally steady yourselves in a side-step-spin routine. 

The feeling is a slow creep up your veins and you feel it before it even reaches the tips of your toes.

All you can find in yourself to focus on is Vernon’s bedhead and bright eyes, the feeling of his hand over yours and the sudden reminder of his heart-shaped birthmark. You are fond just at the thought of him, so sure that you are giving him nothing but heart eyes.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, keeps his hands in yours and on your waist. You decide you’ll figure everything out later.

You rest your head on Vernon’s shoulder, face almost in the crook of his neck, as close to him as you can be. He smells like the fabric softener he always insists on buying and a cologne you remember him wearing on multiple occasions.