The past few months, you told yourself you could do “casual.”

You both busy. Different cities, different schedules, stolen weekends and red-eye flights. It made sense. No pressure. No labels.

But the more time you spent together, the more that line started to blur.

Late nights blurred into early mornings that ended with shared breakfasts. The simple “come over” texts slowly turned into long phone calls about absolutely nothing. And whenever the Boston Raiders were in your city, he made sure there was a ticket waiting for you.

It started to feel like more.

So, the last time you saw each other, it had exploded. You’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling on your clothes while he leaned against the dresser.

“I just—” you’d started, frustrated. “I don’t want to be a hookup when it’s convenient for you.” “I never said you were convenient.” “You don’t say anything, Cliff. That’s the problem.”

You wanted more than he could give you. You wanted to know where you stood. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “My season’s insane right now. I can’t—”

“Can’t what? Commit?”

Silence.

That silence had told you everything. So you’d swallowed the lump in your throat and said the only thing you could to protect yourself. “I can’t keep doing this.” And you walked away.

The next time he was in your city, he sent you a message. In town. Just for a night. No pressure. Just… dinner? You’d stared at it for a full five minutes. You couldn’t stay away.

Which is how you end up here now. Sitting across from him in his apartment. The space so familiar to you, from the couch you’d curled up on, the hallway you’d stumbled down half-laughing, the bedroom door you’re pointedly not looking at.

You’re leaning against his kitchen island, arms folded loosely, watching him cook like you didn’t walk out on him weeks ago.

He moves confidently around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, muscles shifting under soft fabric as he stirs a pan. You haven’t spoken much since you arrived. You don’t have to. He can read you all too well. He glances over his shoulder. Studies you for half a second.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You don’t want pasta?"

You huff a soft breath, shaking your head. “It’s not the pasta.”

He turns the burner down, facing you fully now, leaning back against the counter across from you. Close, but not touching. “Then what is it?”

“Fuck, I shouldn't have come over,” you sigh.

Cliff straightens immediately. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t start regretting this before we’ve even talked.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I can’t help but feel like I’m about to make the same mistake again.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “I’m not a mistake.” “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” You push off the island, pacing a few steps before turning back to him.

“I can’t help but want more when I’m around you,” you admit, quieter now. “I can’t turn that off. And now, I don’t know how to just stand here in your kitchen like we’re just two people having dinner."