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He was going to jump; of that there was no doubt; the questions were “When”, and “Could Anders reach him in time”.
The noble Sir Pounce-a-lot was a fearless creature, daring enough to confront any challenge head on with tooth, claw, and a bottomless reserve of foolhardy courage. This magnificent bravery extended into all parts of his life, from run-ins with less-than-savory beasts (ie, most dogs and people) to venturing into unknown and unexplored territory sans concern for bodily safety. Currently “unexplored territory” included the balcony of apartment 4A, one floor below. Anders knew he shouldn't have left the door open. The cat's bright eyes analyzed the drop; there was a good change of a stable landing and favorable enough odds to consider it; the pavement five floors below was of apparently no concern. It was time to explore.
Anders knew when his cat had set his mind on something, there was a determined glint in the eyes that were locked onto his, blinking rarely as they stared him down mercilessly. He had to keep Pounce-a-lot engaged, concerned with him and not the damned apartment below. He should not have trusted the feline to stay cooperative when all Anders wanted was sleep. The blonde took a risk, pulling his gaze from the cat to the glowing numbers on the microwave: 4:09 am. He'd gotten off the hospital's night shift just over a half an hour ago, and had finally managed to change into his sweatpants and tank when he'd glanced over to the balcony, door left open for a breeze, to see his cat pondering the jump. Just what he needed.
“Pouncy. Think about this for a minute.” His attention returned to the cat, who obviously had considered his newest project (for approximately point-eight three seconds) and had come to the conclusion that it was a good idea. “We'll go back inside, I can get you some catnip, we can go to bed.” Anders was talking softly and moving slowly forward during the words, stepping lightly. Hands in front of him, he tip-toed towards his cat, taking care not to spook the beloved pet into making the leap early. It was way too late (no, early, wasn't it) to deal with this.
The cat's tail swished back and forth in rhythm with Anders's hesitant steps; he was drawing near to ending this stalemate, just four feet away, three and a half, three...
Muscles contracted in the blink of an eye, and before Anders could lunge to stop him, Sir Pounce-a-lot was gone, the tip of his tail disappearing before Anders's very eyes into the abyss below. Fuck. Scrambling to the railing, the blonde cursed his wonderful, adorable, fucking asshole of a cat. With his neck craned he could barely see the cat in question, who had managed not only to make it onto the lower balcony successfully but had made himself comfortable on a padded chair. Fuck. He shouldn't be able to get off the balcony unless he decided to descend another level, which was fortunate.
Anders scoured his brain for the occupant of apartment 4A; he was fairly new to the complex and wasn't terribly familiar with everyone yet, not to mention that a few of the residents were fairly reclusive. The landlord and his son were on the first floor, so was the nice girl in med school who'd invited him to coffee a while ago. The author was a floor above, and the mean guy he knew absolutely nothing about was on his floor . The only person he knew for certain lived on the fourth floor was that bitchy detective who he just knew dealt drugs on the side, what was her name... Meredith? His heart sank. The woman hated cats with a fiery passion. The one time he'd spoken with her, she'd taken the time to complain about the pet-friendly nature of the complex. To top it off, he was fairly sure that she was allergic but not allergic enough to be incapacitated, meaning she could probably do something vicious to an unsuspecting pet before succumbing to the sneezes.
Images flashed through his head briefly of the bitch finding a helpless Sir Pounce-a-lot on her balcony in the morning, screeching in fury, reporting him to the landlord, eviction, or worse, the poor dear tumbling four stories to the harsh asphalt below. The cat-hater triumphant. Oh, that would not do at all. He had to get that cat out of the apartment. And that was why Anders didn't think twice about leaping over the rail separating the solid floor of the balcony from the open air beyond.
Shortly, the moment of heroism was over, but it left him balancing on the slight ledge beyond the railing on the balls of his feet. Okay. Good start. He dropped into a squat, hands slipping down the rails to get a good grip on the lower part of the barrier. Then, in one awkward motion, he shifted his feet out from under him so they hung in mid-air, arms jerking and weakening under the weight of his body. How the hell did that cat bring him to this? His body swayed in the slight summer breeze, discovering that his toes could brush the top of the railing of 4A. His head was still about level with the floor of his balcony, if he really wanted to go somewhere, he'd have to lower himself. He sought out 4A's railing again, feet scrambling until they found purchase on the smooth plastic. Only when they had found some semblance of stability did he dare think that perhaps this wasn't the best idea.
Ander's could feel the burn in the muscles all the way up and down his arm, but he had to extend them fully to get a better stance on the rail. Here it goes . He lowered himself slowly, arms screaming in pain but legs pleased to have found greater stability on a solid object. With his head now low enough to view the balcony, he took a moment to search for the best landing site. The metal-framed chair Sir Pounce-a-lot sat on was on the far left, and beside it was a small matching metal-framed table. There was a very small grill in the right corner closest to the house, but it looked as if it hadn't been touched in ages. The right portion was relatively clear for a landing, which was good for Anders; he took a few steps to the right, putting his body at a funny angle. Then, he moved his hands, one at a time, three rails over. This was so much harder than he thought it would be.
Now the question was how to get from his current position, extended between rails, to safe on the balcony. Perhaps if he started swinging and got enough momentum? He winced as an image flashed through his head of himself landing wrong, hitting the rail, or letting go at the wrong time; all resulted in a rather tragic fall to the pavement. Plus, the way his arms were protesting, his muscles wouldn't hold long enough to actually get the necessary momentum.
It would be better to just release his grip on the rails and put all his weight on his feet; if he did it right, he could just jump off onto the balcony. His balance was good enough, wasn't it? Anders sighed and slid one hand off the rail above. If all else failed, he would just try to fall forward, not back. He could do this. And he did.
In his head, Anders had seen the whole thing going very smoothly; he would swoop down to the balcony, scoop up his cat, and swoop back up. In reality, the escapade was awkward. Dropping from one balcony to another was not as easy as it seemed in the movies, and although he made it to solid ground unscathed, his confidence in the simplicity of the endeavor was fading, fast. It got worse when he glanced around the space; his cat had stood on the chair and was staring at him intently, and he noticed something he hadn't seen earlier: the door to the apartment was open. What kind of idiot left the door to their fourth-floor balcony open at four am? Sir Pounce-a-lot was eying it, searching for better places to play, perhaps. Or maybe he was just being an ass on purpose now.
“This is not a game of tag, Pouncy. Come here, and we'll head back up...” Anders trailed off. How was he going to get back up to his own balcony? Perhaps he could hoist himself up using the reverse technique and brute strength but with a cat (and a quite unruly one, at that) in his arms? His heart sank a little further. Maybe if he was quiet he could slip out the front door? The blonde took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Everything would be okay. He murmured those words to himself a few times. Everything would be okay. He just had to grab the cat and walk out the front door. It was four am, no one would be awake. He opened his eyes, filled with new resolve; Sir Pounce-a-lot had chosen that moment to streak through the door into the apartment, a swishing tail disappearing through the door into the darkness within. Oh fuck.
Anders had no choice but to take off after him.
The interior was not what he'd expected. It was the same layout as his, the same linoleum in different shades of tan, the same laminate countertops, the same out-of-date appliances, but it felt strange, as if he was seeing his own apartment through new eyes. Anders was in a dining area, in front of a small table and single chair. There was a newspaper in several pieces spread out over the entire surface, or perhaps several newspapers; several sported large, dark coffee stains. The coutertop to his right blocked off the kitchen; in the far corner, a coffee pot gleamed, the moonlight streaming in through the open door reflecting off the new surface. Near the edge, a mug sat next to a half-empty bottle of wine. He turned away. The cat had darted left into the living room and was now investigating a blanket thrown over the back of a nice leather couch. The linoleum had turned into a beige carpet, hard as a rock, really, but the owner (who Ander's was beginning to think was not, in fact, Meredith) had put down a soft rug between the couch and a glass coffee table. Across from that was a large television; a small red light glowed ominously near the power button. The entire place smelled faintly of chocolate and spice.
“Come here,” Anders hissed at the cat, willing him to stay put as he lumbered forward. A few steps in, he remembered subtlety, and went up onto his tip-toes. It didn't do any good. Sir Pounce-a-lot dug in his claws and launched himself over the couch to slip deeper into the apartment. It was all Anders could do not to scream in frustration. His dear cat must have a death wish. He tip-toed down the hallway, passing the door to the small laundry room.
It was near-impossible to see the further he got from the windows, but the layout was the same. At the end of the hallway, there would be three doors. To the right, there would be some office space, perhaps some kind of a computer room. Straight ahead, the linen closet. To the left would be the bedroom. Anders gulped. Please no. The pet was trotting just ahead of him, tail flicking just out of his reach. Then, as if reading his mind, Sir Pounce-a-lot veered left, squeezing between the door and the frame. Fuck.
Now, Anders couldn't help the mewl of frustration that escaped his lips. This was unbelievable. He considered his options. He could just slip out the front door now, but that plan basically fed Sir Pounce-a-lot to the wolves; he'd have to come down and get him in the morning, and the owner would most definitely not be pleased a cat had invaded their space. To top that off, if this was Meredith's apartment, Pouncy would be injured at the least. It made him sick just thinking about it. He couldn't just leave his companion, he had to do something, anything. Anders' took a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for what he was about to do. Oh Maker, this was so illegal. He stepped forward and placed his hand on the door.
It was well oiled, at least. There were no irritating squeaks, just the brush of wood over carpet and the pounding of Anders's heart. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if he was bracing himself for something awful to happen. Instead, he heard the faint murmur of paws padding softly on the carpet and someone breathing on the bed. Light seeped in from a window, illuminating a generally tidy but tastefully cluttered room; papers were stacked neatly on top of one another, manilla envelopes beneath them. There was a desk to his left, books stacked on the shelves that held it up, unintelligible but daunting nonetheless. Bright numbers glowed on the face of a digital alarm clock, proclaiming 4:15, then 4:16. They illuminated the clutter of yellow pencils by the papers and another mug.
To his right, there was a king-sized bed; the tan comforter was pooled around the foot, kicked there by frustrated feet. Anders's first impression of the sheets were that they were black, but upon looking a bit harder, he could see that they were, in fact, some shade of dark brown.
And tangled in them was a person. A living, breathing person who's chest rose and fell and caused the sheets to rustle.
They were sprawled out, arms thrown out in both directions above the sheet, which lay on his chest (and Maker, what a chest it was). Even in the half-light, Anders could pick out the size and shape of the, decidedly male, masterpiece. He wore a washed-out t-shirt, but it did a poor job of hiding the contours and plane of a beautiful physique. His face was rugged, outlined in the dimness by a beard and shaggy dark hair.
In staring at the person who owned the apartment that he had broken into, Anders had completely forgotten his quarry for one crucial moment. Sir Pounce-a-lot had been a mere two feet away, sitting in a moonbeam and flicking his tail, but when Anders's stature shifted from curiosity to catch-the-cat mode, the cat knew it was time to scram. And he did.
He fled to the side of the bed; the shadow making it impossible to see what he was up to. Anders held back a sigh and started tiptoeing towards him. Just grab him and get out. But then he was leaping, and to Ander's horror, Sir Pounce-a-lot was striding across the bed, looking for a new place to explore.
The man shifted, groaning in his sleep, unaware of the prowler coming near, closer. Anders wanted to reach out, but if the cat broke into anything faster than an even trot, the chances of the man waking up skyrocketed. So, instead, he gaped, unable to do anything that may spook Pouncey until the moment Sir Pounce-a-lot found what he had been looking for: a comfortable place to lie down.
The cat put one paw forward, gingerly testing his newfound bed, and then leapt forward and curled up on the vast expanse of the man's breathing chest.
He groaned and moved, but the cat managed to stay put; his breathing was harder now, his eyebrows wrinkling together in his sleep. Anders did the only think he could; he slipped between the bed and the wall and reached forward, trying to reach his idiotic cat before he woke up a stranger in their own apartment.
In hindsight, Anders realized that this whole fiasco could have been easily avoided by pausing in his quest for approximately one moment to just think about what was happening. Balcony-jumping and breaking and entering was perhaps not the wisest course of action, even if there was a close friend on the line. Had he been more diligent at the very beginning, this may not have happened at all. Yet, there he was: standing over a strange person in an apartment he'd broken into, reaching for the cat that had made a bed of his chest. If you'd asked him how he thought his night (no, morning) would go, he wouldn't have been anywhere near this.
The cat came up relatively easily in comparison to the effort of actually capturing him; Anders was able to grab his tawny body and lift without hindrance.
However, the sudden removal of the weight on his chest (with the assistance of some primal survival instinct) managed to waken the man, who's eyes fluttered open for a moment before he started and screamed.
Honestly, it was less of a scream and more of a bellow; Anders did the real screaming. He, too, was caught unawares by the man's sudden change in state and found himself backing up and sliding left towards the door (cat in hand) when the man awoke, taking him off-guard and scaring the living daylight out of his bones. Fuck. He was not prepared for this.
“What the fu-” as the man was coming to his senses, Anders felt Sir Pounce-a-lot begin to squirm, fighting to escape. Again. And, of course, he did. Slipping out of Anders's stiff palms was not a problem, but by now, he was blocking the door, forcing the cat back into the room. “Who the hell are you?”
His voice was deep but had a sort of airiness to it, and it was furious. Anders couldn't help but take another step back, suddenly very aware of exactly how illegal this whole adventure was. He was in so much trouble. Of course, Sir Pounce-a-lot also found this the perfect time to jump back up onto the bed, tail flicking as he brushed up against the man who looked as if he was going to get up and punch Anders into next week.
“What the hell?”
Anders opened his mouth once, then twice, and finally managed to form some words on the third try. “There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.” His voice was surprisingly steady. “Honestly I'm just really glad you aren't Meredith.”
“Well I'm not,” he paused. “What time is it?”
Anders glanced at the clock: 4:17 now. “Just past four. Which is understandably a bad time to be woken up.” Sir Pounce-a-lot curled up beside the man, and Anders could hear his purrs from across the room.
“Why the fuck are you in my house?” His voice was still cold and angry, words crisp as he spat them out.
Anders paused to take a breath and closed his eyes. “My cat. Sir Pounce-a-lot jumped off of my balcony and onto yours and I thought this was Meredith's apartment and there was a 90% chance she would just throw him off the balcony again so I had to do something. Fuck, I'm so sorry.” It all came out fast, an explanation from a guilty man, a man who kept his eyes closed as if it would help shut out the reality of the situation.
He expected a lot of things. First and foremost, he expected a fist to connect solidly with his jaw; second, he expected to hear someone furiously dialing the police. What he did not expect was the sound of laughter, rich and low ringing through the room. When he opened his eyes, the man had his hand pressed against that (magnificent) chest as if to contain himself.
“You broke into my apartment,” he uttered as the laughter died down, “because you thought I would throw Sir Pounce-a-lot off the balcony.” The cat in question purred louder, snuggling in closer.
“Well, yeah.” Anders felt his shoulders relax a bit. Maybe (just maybe) he would get out of this in one piece and without a criminal record.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he started chuckling again; the bass chortles spawned from deep in the mans throat and seemed to vibrate in Anders's bones. “I guess I don't know what to say.” He looked down at Sir Pounce-a-lot, then began scratching behind the brown ears. “What am I supposed to say to the guy who broke into my apartment to get his runaway cat?”
Anders didn't know. Maker, this whole thing was such a fucked-up mess. What is someone supposed to say to the guy who broke in and woke them up in their bedroom? Before he could speak, the man began speaking again. “Jesus fuck. Its four am. I'm gonna get you some coffee, and you are going to tell me exactly how you got in here.” He moved to get up, causing Pouncey to groan and then rise as well.
Anders noticed two things about the man. First of all, he was gorgeous. As he walked towards the door where Anders stood, the blonde was fully capable of seeing his body. He moved like an animal; even while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes Anders could see that raw power hid behind his muscles. Anders was a large man; he had bulk, even if he was a little short, but this man seemed to almost dwarf even him. The second thing he noticed was the scent. He'd noticed it earlier when walking through the house, but the odor of chocolate and chai tea seemed to emanate from the man, growing stronger as he drew closer. It was a tempting scent, hints of underlying spice warming the area around him. It was unexpected, for such a man to smell so sweet. Anders wouldn't have guessed, but he certainly wasn't unappreciated; as the man pushed past him to get to the hall, ushering him out on the way, Anders got lungful after lungful of comforting chai and chocolate.
As they walked, Anders half-leading the way/ half-being pushed down the hall, Sir Pounce-a-lot began trotting after them, upset his perfect bed had been disrupted. The two men reached the kitchen promptly, and the man scooped the newspaper off of the table, clearing a spot for them to sit. As Anders hesitated beside the single chair, the man moved between him and the open balcony door, grabbing the chair outside and pulling it up to the table. “Fucking door. Okay,” he said as he closed the door halfway and moved towards the kitchen, glancing sideways at the blonde standing beside the chair, “sit down and explain.”
Anders glanced at the clock, 4:19. “Well, about ten minutes ago, my cat jumped off my balcony because I left the door open. I guess I just like the breeze coming in.”
“Mmhmm,” the man murmured as he dumped coffee grounds into a filter, “I do that too, which is how the rascal got inside.” He paused and looked back at the table where Anders still stood awkwardly beside a chair. “Sit your ass down. I'm almost done with the coffee.”The blonde nodded at the first word, then moved in response to the next few, pulling the chair out and sitting in it as the man poured water into the device.
“So , the only person I know on this floor is Meredith, and she's allergic. I just assumed the worst, and I didn't want him to get hurt.” The man had finished the water and was rooting through a cabinet for some clean mugs, pulling out one and setting it down on the counter before returning to the search.
After successfully tracking down another mug, the man finally pulled his head out of the fake woodwork and slid the cups across the counter to sit beside the pot. “If this was Meredith's apartment you'd have been evicted five minutes ago,” he said, “Commander Bitch would have tossed you and the cat both off the balcony without a second thought. She's got enough friends in the department, lord knows how, to get away with it, too.”
Anders nodded. “Well I'm glad this isn't Meredith's, then.” He wasn't really sure where to go after that, other than to continue the story after the long silence. “Well, I got from my balcony to yours, and-”
“No, but how?” The man interrupted, raising his hand in emphasis, “You jumped off your balcony to rescue your cat from Disney villain. How did you do it?” He was beginning to wake up, eyes glowing as he continued. “Was it like a leap?”
“Um,” Anders began, pausing to let the man's sentence sink in. He definitely seemed more concerned with the process of getting the cat out than the fact that his apartment had been broken into first be a curious feline, then by a grown man. “It was really awkward? It's not very easy, and there was a moment I thought I might fall over backwards.”
The man was disappointed, that much was obvious. He moved to begin cleaning the counter, shifting the wine bottle to a position by the toaster and taking a whiff of whatever was in the mug before tipping it back. “Keep going,” he muttered. The coffee was going fast, but not fast enough it seemed, and he kept shooting it looks of displeasure.
“So I get down here, and the door is open, and I see him looking at it; the next thing I know, he's in the house and I'm chasing after him.” Anders paused for a reaction, anything at all from the man who was glaring at the coffee dripping out of the machine ever so slowly; he got little more than a blink and a slight nod. The lights were still off, the mans body was illuminated only by the glowing blue lights of the coffee machine and the moonlight streaming in through the french doors. It was quite dramatic, Anders noticed, and threw his body into an extreme sort of shading as he stood with his arms crossed and brow set. After a long stretch of silence, the man looked up from the coffee to notice the stare. Anders did not avert his eyes, even though he knew he probably should.
“And then?”
“And then he goes down the hall and to your room. And then he climbs onto your bed before I can stop him and by the time I get him off, you wake up and scare hell out of me, and now here we are.” The blonde was a tired, but the longer he stared into the other man's eyes, the more electrified he became. There was something exciting about the stranger whose apartment he was now in, something about him seeped into his very aura, something that made him a force to be reckoned with.
“Here we are.” The man repeated, eyebrows furrowing.
The coffee pot took that moment and decided to let out a high pitched ding to alert them that the coffee was, in fact, done. The man blinked and turned to the brown liquid, pouring it carefully into two mugs that he then set aside before filling it again to prepare more. He was graceful as he swept up the mugs and set them down on the table, moving deftly but smoothly. Anders felt himself relax at the presence of it, its familiar and comforting aroma rising up to meet him and enveloping him in warmth. He'd worked all night and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep; since that wasn't going to happen, coffee was a good alternative.
“Thank you,” Anders murmured. As the mug was transferred, he got a good look at the man's hands. They were large and strong, with small sprout of dark hair on the fingers; the veins that pulsed on the their backs were accented by the single light source, throwing whole hand into dramatic contrast. They were vastly different from his own; Anders had been given pianist's hands; thin, long, agile fingers grasped the mug gently. The man's hands lingered for an almost imperceptible moment around Anders's, still warm from holding the coffee.
The man nodded, then moved to his own chair and slumped down into it. “This is fucked up.”
Anders nodded, “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Nah. Its fine,” he paused, “For some reason I guess I just believe you.” Anders felt the stress and tension leave his body as he exhaled, replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief. He believed him. Anders was on the verge of singing. No police, no eviction, Sir Pounce-a-lot in one piece: it was more than he ever could have hoped for. “What's your name, anyway?”
“Uh, Anders.” His voice wasn't as strained now, dropping a bit. He took a sip of the coffee. Its rich heat carved a trail through his body; it seemed to warm his whole body from the inside out.
The man nodded appreciatively. “Anders.” Coming from his mouth, the name seemed to have a whole new meaning. He took a sip as he stared at Anders contemplatively; the blonde suddenly felt a little self-conscious. “My name's Garrett Hawke. Most people call me Hawke, I don't know why, I guess it just sounds cooler.”
“I like it. Hawke.” It fit him: short and to-the-point, conveying a sort of thrilling danger. He smiled.
The man, Hawke, gave a small grin, unlike the wry smiles Anders's story had coaxed out of him in that it reflected a hint of genuine pleasure. The smile began to fade as the silence dragged on; neither quite knew what to say. Anders could see the glowing digital clock on the microwave click to 4:31. The whole escapade hadn't taken much time at all. Still, they sat, silent, each daring the other to make the next move, say the next word.
It was Hawke who broke first, groaning and folding himself over the mug. “Its so fucking early. What the fuck were you doing up?” His dark brown hair was wisping over the table; his head was very near colliding with the wood. Anders didn't doubt that if it did make contact, Hawke wouldn't hesitate to fall asleep right then and there.
“I got off work about an hour ago, I was about to go to sleep when, well, you know.” The other man shot right up, incredulous horror written on his face for a moment before being replaced with a shock of pain and annoyance: the coffee had sloshed up over the rim of the cup and onto his hand.
“Where the fuck do you work that they let you off at three thirty in the morning? Get yourself some sleep.”
Anders felt himself answering almost automatically. “The hospital, I'm an RN.” Come to think of it, he really was tired. Sleep sounded nice. Maybe he could just forget about the entire fiasco, wake up to a new day and be free from the embarrassment. Of course, he realized, it wouldn't be a new day, that had passed nearly five hours ago. And if he forgot this ever happened, he'd also forget Hawke, and as embarrassing as this whole shenanigan was, he knew he didn't want to to that. Still: sleep.
“Nice. Cool. Would never be able to do it. Three am is an ungodly hour,” Hawke said, leaning back in his chair, regarding Anders. “There's no use in going back to sleep right now though,” he muttered, “Too much coffee.” His dark eyes moved from the blonde to his mug, staring wistfully into the black depths. He then sighed, shrugged, and gulped the rest of the cup down.
Anders was tired enough that the caffeine was virtually ineffectual, but he somehow managed to keep his eyes (mostly) open enough to see Hawke slurp the coffee and rise to get another cup. As he strode to the countertop, he spoke. “Okay.” It was louder, sharper; a voice used to giving orders. “Here's whats going to happen.” Anders blinked twice, then rose, looking around the living room for his cat. Sir Pounce-a-lot was sitting on the edge of the counter, tail flicking as Hawke poured another full mug of coffee.
“You're going to go upstairs and get some fucking sleep. God knows you need it.” He shuddered, glancing at the clock. Anders strode towards him from across the kitchenette. “I get to tell all my friends and coworkers that a hot blonde guy broke into my apartment to rescue his cat, Isabella is gonna get a kick out of that.” Anders blushed, suddenly glad that the lights had never been turned fully on, they were still in mostly shadow and Hawke couldn't see the flush that tinged his cheeks. “And tonight you're going to pay me back for breaking and entering by buying me dinner.” And that was that. He turned to face Anders with a definitive glint in his eyes, steaming mug halfway to his lips.
The blonde felt his mouth go dry, but found himself taking a deep breath and asking, “Anyplace in particular?”
Hawkes booming laughter filled the space it contained, enveloping Anders in a sea of warm tones that seemed to bubble up from the very air. “Do you like Italian?”