The knock at the door made Michael freeze mid-step, socked feet sliding slightly on the floor. He stared at the entrance for a second, heart skipping—not out of panic, but that fluttery rush he always got when Jeremy showed up.
He took a second to glance at the mirror in the hallway. His face looked… not bad. Still flushed from washing it so roughly, but clean. Hair? Well, it was as close to tamed as it ever got. He tugged on the sleeves of his pizza-print pajama top, sniffed his armpit just in case (clean, thank God), and jogged to the door.
When he opened it, he gave Jeremy a soft, boyish smile—crooked, a little sheepish, but warm. “Hey,” he said casually, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You made it.”
He stepped aside to let him in, not pointing out the fact that the couch had been cleared off, or that the blanket on it had been smoothed down and folded just right. Or that the lights were dimmed slightly and the smell of cheap vanilla-scented candles clung faintly to the room. He didn’t say anything about how his breath caught a little when Jeremy walked past him.
But when he turned to close the door, he spotted something sticking awkwardly out from under one of the couch cushions—something small and silver-foiled.
His eyes widened.
“…shit,” he muttered under his breath, lunging across the room in a panic-swirl of blanket and flailing limbs.
He yanked the condom packet and stuffed it into his pajama pocket like it was radioactive, then froze—slowly turning his head to see if Jeremy had noticed.
“…Soooo,” he cleared his throat, trying not to make eye contact, “Popcorn or root beer first?”
His smile came back, nervous but hopeful, as he dropped onto the couch beside Jeremy, clearly trying to act normal. And failing..