Page 63 of Rising Heat

Tyler takes a sip of wine, eyes dropping briefly to the couch before finding me again.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

His grin widens.

“You sat exactly one throw pillow away from me.”

I glance down and immediately regret it. He’s right. One oversized cream pillow sits between us like a peace treaty neither of us remembers signing.

“I won’t bite,” Tyler says, lifting his wine glass, “Unless you’re into that.”

“You’re insufferable,” I say, rolling my eyes despite the blush I can feel crawling up my face.

“And yet, here I am. In your apartment. Feeding you.”

Before I can come up with a response, I shove a forkful of pasta into my mouth. My eyes widen despite myself, and Tyler doesn’t miss it.

He looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Like something?”

You can say that again.

I take another bite instead of answering.

Tyler’s grin turns smug.

“Thought so.”

I point my fork at him.

“This feels like manipulation.”

Tyler leans back, one arm stretched along the back of the couch.

“Maybe.”

I smile into my wine.

The candle flickers on the coffee table between us while the TV plays in the background, and I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch eating dinner with a man who showed up carrying carbs for no good reason.

I feel entirely spoiled.

Tyler glances over.

“You miss home?”

The question catches me off guard. I tuck one leg beneath me, turning slightly toward him.

“Sometimes.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense. Like homesickness is something to hold instead of solve.

“What do you miss?”