Andrew lingered in the doorway, hands stuffed awkwardly in the pockets of his apron, heart hammering against his ribs like a percussion section gone rogue. He could smell her before he even stepped inside. Vanilla-mint—soft, warm, undeniably hers. It curled around him, teasing and grounding all at once, pulling at something deep inside him he didn't want to admit. His own honeyed pheromones—warm, sticky-sweet, almost cloying—bubbled to the surface the moment he inhaled hers. It was like a silent conversation, a tug-of-war he wasn't sure he was ready to engage in yet.
"Tiny…"
His voice wavered. No, not wavered—tripped, stumbled, nearly disappeared into a squeak. She looked up immediately, silver hair catching the lamplight in tiny threads, her icy-blue eyes wide and sparkling, unafraid, almost teasing him without needing to say a word. She leaned back on the bed, legs tucked under her, oversized sweatshirt swallowing her whole like a little cotton-coated koala.
"Andy."
