I unlock the gate and hold it open for Richie. As I follow him up the stairs, I can't help but watch his ass, Tight. Firm. The strength of his shoulders. His back. Everything about him is so different from the type of bodies I'm usually attracted to.

He is a man, after all.

And yet there is something unmistakable stirring inside me as I check him out.

He steps back as we reach the landing, allowing me to lead the way to my apartment door. I inhale his scent. Soap and skin. Just a hint of something else. Sweat? Detergent? Definitely not cologne. Maybe just his shampoo?

"So," I say, as I unlock the door, "I probably should have asked this first, but is pizza a codeword, or are we actually ordering pizza?"

We step through the door and into my apartment. Richie closes the door behind us. He locks the deadbolt. Smiles.

Hello dimple.

"Did you want it to be a codeword?"

We're alone. Just the sound of traffic floating through an open window. But otherwise the air is still. And I know I could kiss him right now. Taste him and feel him. Lead him down the hall to my bed. And I don't think he'd stop me.

Is that what I want?

Instead of jumping him. Or even answering him. I walk forward into the living room and take a seat on the couch.

Richie follows.

"I didn't get a tour last time I was here," he muses, walking around the open space, taking his time.

He runs a finger over my bookshelf, eyes studying the titles on the book spines. He sweeps past the ficus in the corner. The one I probably need to water. He glances over the framed family pictures, and then pauses at the abstract painting I have hanging on the wall. "This looks familiar."

He looks over at me, question on his face.

"Angie painted it for an elective she took." I shrug one shoulder. "It was a housewarming gift."

"Ah." He nods. "I must've seen it in progress."

"Speaking of Angie," I start.

"Please don't." He steps towards me. "We don't have to."

"I know," I agree. "But, she did give us an order."

"I recall." He sits. Knee brushing against mine. "To figure our shit out."

"Not sure she said 'shit'."

"Well, she definitely thought it." His knee presses against mine. Stays.

I take a slow inhale.

"Maybe we should order pizza," I say, pulling my phone from my pocket.

He leans closer to me. His forearm on mine. "Is that a codeword?" he asks, a mischievous look in his eye.

With his warmth along my side, a tingle forms at my core. God. What is it about him?

"No," I say with the most serious voice I can muster, "I actually mean pizza."

"Okay, okay." He shifts back a few inches, but his expression doesn't change.

I suddenly miss the feel of his skin against mine.

"Meat lovers?" I ask, looking down at my phone screen and opening up an app.

He shrugs. "Meat is optional. I care more about crust consistency. Quality of products used. You know, it's not all about toppings."

I roll my eyes. "Not everything has to be a double entendre. I just want to know your favorite type of pizza."

He laughs. Real. Genuine. "I love it when you call me out."

"You do?"

"Of course." His voice light. "That's one of the many things I like about you."

My ears burn and for a second I forget what I'm supposed to be doing.

Then I remember.

Pizza.

"How about olive and mushroom?" I manage, adding it to the cart even before he agrees.

"Perfect."

I press order and place the phone down before looking back at him.

That smile of his undoes me. My heart is beating faster than a hummingbird's and my chest feels suddenly constricted.

"There is something about you," I whisper, my voice trailing off.

"About me that what?" He cocks his head to the side.

"I should hate you. Used to avoid you. But, fuck. I don't know if it's hormones or pheromones or what, but like, damn. What is this electricity I feel?" I squint at him. Study his form. Then I reach out and trace his exposed forearm. The coarse hair that covers muscle and vein. I take note of a small freckle near his wrist. The tattoo that I know is etched on the underside. Slowly mapping his exposed topography.

He reaches out with his other hand and places it on mine.

I tend to worry about my hands. Even with new hairs gifted from testosterone, they're still smaller than I'd like. Nailbeds too narrow. But they look good next to Richie's. Not too feminine, even in comparison.

I look up and our eyes meet. We're close enough that I can make out the mountains and valleys of his irises. The undulating brown waves interspersed with bits of copper. A fleck of gold. Warm like honey.

His smile has faded away, leaving behind a look of contemplation. Thick brows. But surprisingly well-shaped. I wonder if he plucks them. He must.

"I feel the electricity, too." A low rumble. Barely audible. I watch his lips as much as hear the words. "So what are we going to do about it?"

My brain isn't working. At least not the one in my skull. Everything north of my shoulders feels foggy and overheated, thoughts dissolving the second they form. All instinct. All static and want.

But at least I'm sober this time. Inhibitions intact. So I have enough sense not to just throw myself at him. Not to crash our mouths together and pretend this isn't already spiraling into something dangerous.

Although, damn. I wouldn't mind.

Instead, I force myself to take a deep breath.

"Well," I say carefully, though careful feels impossible when his knee is still touching mine, "the goal is to avoid a big mess, right?"

"Right," he agrees. A slight nod of his head, Adam's apple bobbing.

"And—in my experience at least—emotions are what make things messy."

"Mm." Another nod. He's listening. Fully focused. Like every word out of my mouth matters more than it should.

"So," I continue, voice quieter now, "what if we just... don't do that part?"

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "Don't do what part?"

I swallow.

"The emotional part."

His smile fades into the careful construction of neutrality. I try not to read too deeply into that. Because trying to read his mind is what leads to messes. And that is exactly what is not going to happen here between us.

"And just do what?" he asks.

I feel ridiculous saying it out loud. To him. It's like I'm fifteen and trying to negotiate terms and conditions for my own sexuality. I know how to seduce a woman, but Richie? This feels completely different.

Instantly, I feel hot. Aware of every inch between us.

"Have fun," I say, trying not to sound ridiculous.

The words land in the space between us and stay there.

"Fun?" he repeats. A crinkle forms between his eyes as he considers what I'm saying. As he tries to read between my own lines.

But I don't want this to be a game of mind-reading, so I shift closer before I can second-guess myself. The couch cushion dips beneath us. My thigh slides against his. Warm. Solid.

His breath catches.

Tiny. Barely audible.

But I hear it.

I place one hand on his shoulder, fingers curling lightly against the fabric of his t-shirt, and use the leverage to swing one leg over his lap.

The movement feels bold right up until the second I'm there.

Straddling him. Chest rising too fast. My knees on either side of his hips.

Richie leans back slightly, eyes dragging over me with an openness that makes heat flare all the way up my neck.

Not subtle.

Not hidden.

He looks at me like he wants me. Dilated pupils, tongue wetting his lips.

His hands hover for half a second like he's not sure where he's allowed to touch.

This shouldn't affect me as much as it does.

"Fun," I repeat, softer this time.

The apartment suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. The open window letting in humid summer air and distant city noise and none of it enough to cool down whatever's happening between us.

Richie's hands finally settle against my hips.

Carefully.

Like he's checking whether this is real.

"I could do with some fun in my life," he says, volume hovering just above a whisper.

My chest tightens at that.

"Okay," I say, allowing my weight to settle on his lap. My forearms on his shoulders. My lips inches from his. "Let's have some fun."

And then, just as I'm about to lean in the last inch, the alarm buzzes.

Twice.

Loud and insistent.

"Pizza's here," Richie says.

I glance toward the door.

Then back at him.

Back at his mouth.

The buzzer goes off again downstairs, longer this time. Whoever's delivering the pizza doesn't understand that you just drop the box and take a picture and leave. Isn't all delivery contact-less these days?

Richie's eyes flick toward the door for half a second before returning to mine.

Giving me a chance to change my mind.

I don't.

"It can wait," I say, leaning in without hesitation, kissing him.