Notes Between Seasons

By the time Elias stepped out of the shower, the apartment had transformed. Steam still clung to his skin, trailing down the lines of his chest in lazy rivulets. His hair, damp and tousled, curled slightly at the edges, a few strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that only ever happens when he doesn't try. A towel hung low on his hips, clinging to the dip of his waist, water beading along the sharp line of his collarbone and dripping from his jaw as he moved.

The soft golden light from the living room spilled down the hallway, catching the edge of his frame as he walked barefoot, unhurried, warmth rolling off him like an aftershock. With each step, the scent of his body wash clean, sun-warmed coconut with a hint of musk drifted outward, mingling with the spicy aroma of takeout that had taken over the apartment.

He disappeared briefly into the bedroom, emerging moments later in a pair of soft grey joggers, slung low on his hips, the towel abandoned. No shirt. Just bare skin and casual confidence. The ridges of his abdomen still glistened faintly in the dim light, and the muscles in his back flexed with a lazy grace as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back without care.

He looked like someone carved from heat and comfort fresh from water, wrapped in warmth, and completely at ease. Comfortable. Home.

And when he stepped into the golden-lit kitchen, barefoot and bare-chested, the contrast of spice in the air and skin still warm from the shower made it feel less like dinner and more like an invitation.

She looked up as he entered the kitchen, and her breath hitched just for a second. Not enough for him to notice. But enough for her to feel it.

Grey joggers, no shirt, hair damp, skin still glistening in places. He looked like a fever dream, all relaxed muscle and clean lines, like he belonged in the pages of some minimalist lifestyle magazine titled Heat.

Her gaze lingered just for a second too long on the low dip of his waistband, the gentle V of his hips. That smooth, quiet confidence. Like he had no idea what he was doing to the room just by existing in it.

"Wow," she said, voice dry, but not nearly as dry as she meant it to be. "So that's how we're dressing for dinner now?"

He smirked without looking up, casually grabbing two forks from the drawer. "You complaining?"

"No. Just wondering if I missed a memo titled Dress Code: Abs."

He finally glanced over at her, his grin smug but lazy. "This is what I wear when I'm trying to impress a woman with minimal effort."

She crossed her arms, feigning a casual pose, but she could feel the way her skin had gone warmer under his gaze. "Well. You're dangerously close to succeeding."

"Not when danger shows up shirtless and smells like it belongs in a spa commercial," she muttered, without meeting his eyes.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Just appreciating the… ambiance."

He raised a brow. "Sure. Ambiance."

He moved beside her, close enough for the heat of him to graze her shoulder, their arms brushing lightly as they stood side by side.

"Also," he murmured, low and teasing, "I do own shirts, by the way."

"Do you?" she asked, mock innocent, stealing a piece of duck and popping it into her mouth. "Could've fooled me."

"I thought I'd… ease into comfort," he said, looking her over slowly, "since you seem to have made yourself at home in my shirt."

She smirked. "Well, it's oversized. And soft. And smells like you."

His gaze deepened just a touch, the humor still there but something quieter flickering underneath it.

"So… you're saying you like how I smell?" he said, reaching for the prawn rolls, still warm and crisp.

She gave him a look, but her smile betrayed her. "I'm saying don't get cocky. It's just the coconut body wash."

"And the danger."

He smirked, watching her without moving. "You like coconut."

"I do. Trouble, I'm still debating."

He lifted the paper bag in his hand, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Then let me bribe you."

She looked up immediately, eyes sharpening with mock suspicion. "Is that… Thai?"

He nodded, setting it gently on the counter. Steam rose as he opened the folded top, releasing a richer burst of flavor into the room. "Took a wild guess."

"A wild guess that's going to determine the fate of your evening," she said, standing and approaching like a cat drawn to warmth. She peeked into the bag, already leaning forward to catch the smell more fully. "Wait' wait. Is that crispy duck?"

"Crispy duck, garlic rice, prawn rolls, something with basil that's way too spicy for normal people… I picked stuff that looked dangerous but delicious."

"God," she whispered dramatically. "You beautiful man."

He grinned. "So I guessed right?"

She eyed him as she reached in for a container. "You guessed dangerously close. I mean, there's no massaman curry but you're forgiven because this rice smells like heaven."

He laughed, catching her wrist before she could retreat with the food. Her fingers paused on the takeout box.

"For what?" he asked, stepping closer, his free hand sliding gently around her waist.

"For showing up looking like a Calvin Klein ad after I've been in couch mode all evening."

He kissed her temple, his breath warm. "You're in my shirt and threatening me over duck. That's hotter than anything I've got going."

"I'm very aggressive about duck."

"I noticed."

The air carried a delicious, almost sinful aroma warm spices blooming in the heat, a blend of lemongrass, garlic, and the unmistakable sharpness of chili oil. Something fried crackled faintly from the still-steaming takeout boxes on the kitchen island, their scents winding their way down the hallway like an invitation. There was a low hum beneath it all the soft, buttery strum of acoustic guitar spilling gently from the speaker in the corner, wrapping the room in a late-evening hush. It was the kind of music you didn't notice until you were suddenly swaying to it.

They stood in the kitchen, elbows brushing as they unpacked the meal, spreading containers across the marble counter. Steam curled from the rice, clouding the air with garlic and something subtly citrusy. When he cracked open the basil chicken, the sharp punch of heat hit first, followed by sweet undertones and the warm, earthy note of holy basil.

The prawn rolls sizzled slightly inside their container, still warm, and the crispy duck glistened with a sticky, caramel-dark glaze. He handed her a pair of chopsticks with a little bow, earning an eye-roll and a smirk.

She stabbed a piece of garlic rice immediately and made a blissful sound after her first bite. "Okay, fine. You might live."

"Just might?"

"Well, that depends on whether you let me eat the duck skin."

He leaned against the counter, watching her. "You want to trade the skin for dessert later?"

"I want both. Obviously."

They ate leaning against the island, the conversation easy and full of little jabs. She stole bites of his basil chicken and hissed at the spice, tears springing to her eyes.

"That is not normal spice," she gasped, fanning her mouth.

He chuckled, offering her water. "Thought it might light a fire."

"It lit a war."

"You're the one who said you like dangerous."

"Yeah, not 'my-tongue-is-crying' dangerous."

They laughed, her elbow nudging his side. He offered her a prawn roll in truce, and she took it without apology, lips brushing his fingers as she bit.

The apartment, still steeped in golden light and slow guitar, blurred into the background—the music a hush, the food a comfort, the air full of spice and something sweeter rising between them.

She licked a dot of sauce off her lip. "For the record, if you guessed all that food based purely on instinct... I'm slightly impressed."

He tilted his head, amused. "Slightly?"

"Well," she drawled, sipping her wine, "it could've gone terribly. You could've brought sushi. Or worse plain noodles."

"Hey, I did my research."

"Stalked my delivery history?"

"No," he said, then added, "maybe."

She laughed, warmth rising in her cheeks. "Creepy. But effective."

"Better than showing up with salad."

She gasped. "Blasphemy. Never speak such words in my kitchen again."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Lesson learned. Always lead with fried."

"See? You're already halfway to being a real adult."

"So," she said after a pause, "how was the office thing?"

He sighed, leaning back against the stool. "Boring. Long. More suits than should be legally allowed in one room. Someone tried to pitch a new campaign using buzzwords like 'synergistic disruptor network' I almost walked out."

She laughed. "Sounds painful."

"It was. Only made better by the thought of you lounging on my couch, stealing my shirts, probably ignoring all the things you told yourself you'd do today."

"I resent that," she said, mock-offended. "I was very productive."

"Oh?"

"I organized your sock drawer."

His eyebrows rose. "Seriously?"

"No, I napped."

He laughed, full and warm. "That's what I like to hear."

She leaned her cheek against her hand. "Did you miss me?"

He looked at her, eyes softening. "Every damn second."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It hummed between them, rich and full.

She broke it with a tease. "You're laying it on thick tonight."

"You bring out the poet in me. Or maybe it's the wine."

She raised her glass to him. "To poets and prawn rolls."

"To you," he said, clinking his glass gently against hers.

After dinner, he cleaned up while she leaned on the counter, sipping what was left of her wine and watching him move. Her eyes trailed over his bare chest and the way the soft joggers hung on his hips. He caught her staring.

"See something you like?"

"I plead the fifth."

He grinned. "You're not in court."

"Well then. Yes. Absolutely yes."

Dishes done, lights dimmed again, he turned to her and crooked a finger. "Come here."

She came.

He lifted her easily, arms firm around her thighs as her legs wrapped around his waist, and she laughed into his neck.

"You can't carry me to bed every time we eat dinner."

"I could try."

"You'll throw your back out."

"Worth it."

He set her down gently at the foot of the bed new sheets crisp and clean this time, faintly lavender-scented. She landed with a soft sigh, stretching out and letting her limbs sprawl across the surface.

"So," she said lazily. "Work tomorrow?"

"Nope. Took it off."

She lifted her head. "Seriously?"

"I told them I needed a day to recover from 'synergistic disruption.'"

She burst out laughing. "God, I love when you mock your own job."

"I mock everything."

She tugged his hand until he joined her on the bed, both of them lying sideways across it, legs hanging off the edge.

"I was thinking," she said, trailing her fingers down his forearm.

"Dangerous."

"Shut up. I was thinking we could go for a walk tomorrow. Or brunch. Or just… stay in and do nothing."

He tilted his head toward her, lips brushing her temple. "Let's do all three."

"That's not how time works."

"With you, it does."

She turned her face into his shoulder, smiling into his skin. "You're cheesier than the stuffed naan."

"Guilty."

A beat passed, and then she asked, quieter this time, "Do you ever think this—us—is going too fast?"

He didn't rush his answer. "Sometimes. But then I remember how it feels when you're here. How right it feels. And I stop worrying."

She closed her eyes. "Yeah. Same."

They lay like that for a while, tangled, calm, full of food and each other.

"I'm glad you're staying tonight," he said softly.

"I was always staying."

"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "Just like hearing it."

She yawned, arm flopping across his stomach. "If you weren't so warm, I'd go find a blanket."

"Stay. I'll keep you warm."

"Cocky."

"Also accurate."

She snorted, eyes fluttering shut.

He smiled, watching her slip toward sleep, her breathing evening out, her body curling closer without thought. His fingers brushed her back slowly, rhythmically. He didn't feel like sleeping yet not with her like this, soft and sleepy in his arms.

Tomorrow could wait.

Tonight, the only thing that mattered was here.

Her.

Always her.