When Noah arrived, the rain had already turned the windows silver. He shook water from his jacket in the hallway and found Mateo in the kitchen, attempting to rescue a pot of soup that had clearly been forgotten.
“You said you were making dinner,” Noah said.
“I did make dinner,” Mateo replied. “The soup simply chose a more dramatic path.”
Noah laughed, and the sound eased something in Mateo’s shoulders. They ordered food instead, then settled on the couch with bowls balanced on their knees. Outside, traffic hissed over the wet pavement. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of tea and warm bread.
They had been seeing each other for a few weeks, long enough to know each other’s coffee orders, not long enough to stop feeling a little nervous. Mateo kept smoothing the edge of his blanket. Noah noticed and offered his hand, palm upward, leaving the choice open.
Mateo placed his fingers in Noah’s. Their hands fit comfortably, and neither of them rushed to say anything about it.
They watched an old comedy, though they spent most of it trading quiet comments and missing the jokes. At one point, Mateo leaned against Noah’s shoulder. Noah stayed still until Mateo looked up and smiled.
“Is this okay?” Mateo asked.
“More than okay,” Noah said.
The movie ended. The rain softened. They talked about childhood pets, terrible haircuts, and the places they hoped to visit someday. When Noah finally stood to leave, Mateo walked him to the door.
“Same time next week?” Noah asked.
“Only if you let me cook.”
Noah grinned. “I’ll bring backup soup.”
Mateo kissed him gently, a brief, unhurried promise. Then they said goodnight, both smiling as the door closed between them.
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