Sometimes I feel like I read too much into things.

Like tonight, for example, where I invited you over to my apartment for dinner. It was just an excuse; to get to know you better, to cook for you, to spend extra time with you — alone, without any of our friends butting in on us.

You’re just my friend, my colleague, my coworker. Even as you help me wash the dishes and keep making these… stupidly-hilarious jokes, none of this means anything. But there’s this little nagging feeling that keeps telling me you want to stay — that I should ask you.

But that’s crazy, right?

We’re just friends, colleagues, coworkers. You don’t need to stay. In fact, you should probably leave.

Before we both do something we’ll regret.

“God, do you not know how to wash a spoon?!” I cry out when the front of my shirt is suddenly soaked with hot water from the sink. Still, I can’t hide the smile on my face that refuses to be impeded by shock.