#yeah its

You burst out the apartment entrance, muttering “sorry”s as you bump shoulders on your way to the street. A loud alarm rings out from the building into the dead night air — you’re sure the next street over is waking up from the ruckus. You’re just as unhappy as they are.

You find the last bit of a curb to sit on just as another person finds the same curb.

“Ah-“

“No! Sorry.” He scoots a bit and smiles. “Room for two. I was being greedy.”

Room? Barely — you’d be shoulder to shoulder with him if you sat now. But you note that the voices behind you are only building as more people flood out, and you’re sure this is the best place to sit and wait out some probably tiny microwave fire on the top floor.

You smile, say thanks, and take a seat. Sure enough, your shoulder brushes his unexpectedly warm shoulder as you sit. He tries to scoot a bit more but it barely makes a difference.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? It’s okay!”

He shrugs and your eyes flit over to him, studying. He’s tall. Well built. And, uh, clearly he had been sleeping. He’s dressed in a simple white tank top and it looks like he barely managed to pull on some sweatpants before bolting from his front door at the alarm.

Not that you’re much better. You barely managed to pull on a large t-shirt to cover what little you wore to bed. You curl in on yourself a bit at that reminder. Shouldn’t the firefighters be here already?

“Cold?” He asks at your movement.

“No, it’s alright out,” you quickly reply. “I’m just… tired.”

He shifts and you glance at him again. Tattoos. Strong jaw. Large hands. You wonder to yourself how those hands might feel. Rough? Soft?

He flexes his hand and you blush. What the hell are you thinking??

You turn back to the loud beeping building and clear your throat. “What floor do you live on?”

“Ninth. You?”

“Just above you — tenth.”

“Long walk down, huh?”

“Oh, am I sweaty? Sorry if I am-“

“No, no, not at all,” his eyes meet yours then. You watch as they fall down to leisurely examine your body before he murmurs something to himself.

“Hm? What’s that?”

He turns back to the building with a grin. “Nothing. Just looks like we both scrambled a bit to make it out.”

You laugh a bit and he knocks his shoulder against you, chuckling along. “The terrible 3AM fire of 2022 — what could be the cause of our fevered rush to safety?”

“Oh,” he scoffs, “definitely a microwave.”

You prop your chin on your hand and smile warmly. “My thoughts exactly.”

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