Page 171 of Full Contact

He took my bread.

“You had your own,” I said.

“I ate my own.”

He tore it in half and handed me the smaller piece. I looked at it, then at him.

“I’m still hungry,” he said.

“I gathered.”

On the TV, Pratt caught a shot and held up his glove. I took a bite of dinner. It was still warm, and I had nowhere else I needed to be tonight.

“The network wants a spontaneous moment at exactly eight twenty-five tomorrow,” I said.

Trier finished chewing before he answered.

“Tell them I’m spontaneous at nine.”

***

At ten, I hung my trousers over the back of Trier’s bedroom chair and checked that I’d put my keys in my laptop bag. My phone was charging on his nightstand. I set the alarm, then checked it again.

“Seven at the arena?” he asked from the bed.

“Yes.”

He lifted the sheet on my side, and I got in beside him.

I wanted more evenings like this one, including the part where he stole my bread.

Trier switched off the lamp and settled onto his right side. I lay facing him, close enough that our knees touched.

“I’m tired of keeping track of which place has my clean shirts,” I said.

“You could leave more here.”

“I know.” I ran my fingers along the edge of the sheet. “But I’m tired of packing to leave the place where I want to wake up.”

He was quiet for a moment while the air conditioning clicked on.

“I hate watching you do it,” he said. “Even when I know I’ll see you the next day.”

I stopped fiddling with the sheet.

“Do you want us to live together?” I asked.

“Yes.”

He reached across the space between us. “Do you?” he asked.

“Yes. I want to come home to you.”

His hand closed around mine. For a little while, neither of us said anything.

“We’d have things to figure out,” I said eventually. “Where we’d live. Space for both of us. I don’t think we should try to settle all of that tonight.”

“No.”