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Rey hadn’t meant to end up in her neighbor’s apartment.
But when he offered her a cup of coffee and some cookies for the third time in a week, she thought, ‘why the hell not?’
(Plus, he’s hot. That’s definitely a bonus. She’s seen him out jogging before, always in these shorts that barely come mid thigh, and often shirtless.)
“Here you go,” he says, his voice hesitant as he holds out the mug – bearing the word ‘NOPE’ in big bold letters across the glazed ceramic – and two chocolate chip cookies on a chipped saucer plate.
“Thanks,” is all she says as she thinks ‘I never noticed how gorgeous his eyes are.’
“I’m Ben, by the way. Probably should have led with that.” He makes a couple wordless gestures before dragging a hand through his hair. “Sorry about the stupid mug, it’s–”
“No, no it’s fine,” she interrupts the stream of words, smiling at him. “I like it. Relatable.”
He grins widely, and sort of laughs, his anxiety visibly decreasing. “Relatable. Okay.”
She sets the little plate on the table and takes a bite of one of the cookies and outright moans at how good they are. “Oh my god, did you make these?!”
She eats the cookie like it’s the only food she’s had in days, eyes closed and sighing contentedly.
She reaches for the second and only then does she notice him staring, his eyebrows high in surprise and the faintest blush on his face – because of course she had to go and fucking moan in his fucking kitchen.
She covers her mouth with a hand and wills her own cheeks not to color but, nope, the universe has conspired against them. “Oh. Ohhh my god. I’m so sorry, they’re just… really, really good.”
He inhales suddenly, as if he’d forgotten breathing was something one has to do to live, then exhales slow and shaky.
And then his hand is reaching toward her, and his fingertips dancing along her jaw, and suddenly he’s standing over her and fuck he’s taller than she realized even though she is not at all short.
He plucks the mug from her hand, walking toward her – as she walks backwards – until she bumps into his table and he sets the mug down behind her before bringing his hand to her face with the smallest smirk. His other hand folds across her hip with a firm touch.
His face is so expressive she doesn’t even have to guess where this is going: the nervous way he works his lip between his teeth – as if he’s actually deliberating – while his hand has turned so his thumb is on her cheekbone and his fingers sliding around to the back of her head, his eyes roaming as if trying to memorize every freckle.
She, for her part, traces the thin scar that crosses his face with a gentle finger, drawing a line from his jaw up to his brow and then softly dragging the same finger down his long nose and to his lips. His breath catches, and she thinks, ‘Filing that away for later. Whatever later means.’
So of course, when he finally crashes his mouth to hers – his ridiculous perfect lips so soft and pliable, his tongue working along hers like he already knows the shape of her mouth – she gladly reciprocates.
She slides her hands up into his hair, his wavy soft beautiful fucking hair, pushing off from the table and making him take a step back.
He chuckles, a reverberating sound that she can feel as clearly as she hears, his nose brushing along hers as he pulls away from her mouth. She tries to chase him, not wanting to stop this yet, but his hand slides from her face down her arm to her hand and he tugs, gently but insistently, out of the kitchen and through the door to his room.
She kicks the door shut on the way.
(A week later.)
She’s halfway bent over to lock her apartment when the door across the hall shuts loudly and she lets out an undignified squeak of surprise, her keys falling to the floor at her feet.
“Shit,” she sighs, bending to pick them up.
She stands and turns to say hi to Ben, but he’s right there and she has to catch herself before her fist goes swinging.
“Ah, sorry, didn’t mean to–”
“It’s fine, Ben, I promise,” she laughs as she turns the key in the lock.
She spins around again, smiling up at him. “When’s our next cookie date?”
He smirks, and starts to reply but catches himself, looking her over. “Is that my shirt? That’s my shirt! I’ve been looking for it for days.”
She looks down at herself, at the baggy tee she’d pulled on and tied at one bottom hem like some 90s punk, at the upside down text that says “ADULT-ISH” across the chest, then looks back up at Ben who looks decidedly smug.
Smug is definitely a good look for him.
She bites at the tip of her tongue – sees him noticing, wanted him to notice – and says, “Make some more of those cookies and you can have it back anytime.”