HIS LITTLE PET
He’d be here in half an hour.
I got to work setting up the scene. I wasn’t a chef, but I could boil pasta and throw some pre-made marinara sauce in a pan. I put on a playlist of mellow indie music—the kind of stuff I’d seen on his Spotify profile when I sneaked a glance at his phone. By the time the doorbell rang, the apartment smelled like garlic, and the lighting was low and relaxed.
I opened the door, and Nathan was standing there, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked a little tired from the lack of sleep, but the second he saw me, a soft smile touched his lips.