Strictly Educational

Noah played the track from his phone and danced in the space between my couch and the windows.

I watched the first eight counts with the detached professionalism of a man admiring athletic technique.

By count sixteen, I was admiring his hips.

By twenty-four, I had stopped pretending this was a public service.

He finished and looked at me expectantly.

"Your feet are fine," I said.

"I hoped so. I've had them for years."

I pointed at him. "Keep being funny and I'll charge you."

He grinned.

I stood and went around him, watching him repeat the transition slowly.

"You're trying to make the whole movement happen from your knees. It starts higher. May I?"

I held a hand beside his waist.

"Yes."

I touched the side of his abdomen, light pressure through the fabric. "Start here. Let the weight transfer before you turn."

He tried. His shoulders tightened.

"You're bracing."

"I'm aware."

I looked up.

His ears were red.

Oh.

For a week, I had been collecting evidence I didn't want to name. The way he always took the seat beside me. The extra second before he let go when passing a plate. The ridiculous pleasure he took in making me laugh.

I could have stepped back.

Instead, I turned and stood in front of him.

"Put your hands here," I said, guiding them to my hips. "Feel where the movement starts."

His fingers settled cautiously.

I moved with the beat, slow enough for him to follow. His hands warmed through my thin shirt.

"There," I said. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes."

His voice had changed.

I glanced over my shoulder. "The transfer of weight, Noah."

"I understood the question."

That answer went straight through me.

I turned inside the loose circle of his arms. His hands stayed where I had put them until I rested mine on his shoulders.

"You're very red."

"You're standing very close."

"I can move."

His fingers tightened, then loosened immediately.

"I'd rather you didn't."

We stood there while the song continued, entirely ignored, behind us.

I traced the seam of his shoulder with my thumb. Up close, I could see a small scar near his eyebrow and a pale freckle beside his mouth. He smelled like soap and the cold air outside.

He watched me watching him.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

For once, I didn't have an instant answer.

He noticed.

"You can say no. It won't make living here strange. I'll still make breakfast."

I laughed, and the tension eased just enough for me to breathe.

"A very persuasive offer."

"That wasn't meant to be a negotiation."

"I know."

I looked at his mouth.

He was young. He was grateful to me. We lived together. There were several perfectly sensible reasons to take a step back and think.

There was also the fact that I had spent a week thinking about him while pretending to watch television.

"Is this because I helped you?" I asked.

His expression changed. Not hurt exactly. Serious.

"No. I'm grateful for what you did. I want to kiss you because you leave sarcastic notes on my textbook, and you listen when I talk about things you don't understand, and yesterday you danced with a dish towel because I said the kitchen was too quiet."

My throat tightened.

"It was an excellent performance."

"It was," he said. "I wanted to kiss you then too."

I slid a hand to the back of his neck.

"Then yes. You can kiss me."

He bent toward me carefully, like he had been handed something he wasn't sure he was allowed to keep.

Our mouths met.

It was warm, tentative, a little awkward at the angle. He pulled back almost immediately, searching my face.

I couldn't help smiling.

"That bad?" he asked.

"That cautious. Come here."

I kissed him again.

His breath caught against my mouth. I slowed, let him follow, and felt the moment he stopped worrying about getting it right.

His hand moved to my back. Mine tightened in his hair.

When we broke apart, neither of us had moved very far.

"You're a quick learner," I said.

"I have a strong incentive."

Then he kissed me with considerably more confidence, and I decided education was the foundation of a healthy society.

We backed into the couch. I sat, pulling him with me, and laughed when his knee bumped the table we hadn't moved quite far enough.

"Your spatial awareness needs work."

"You are making it difficult to concentrate."

"Blaming the instructor already?"

He kissed the corner of my smile. "Only for the distraction."

The sweetness of it undid something I hadn't known was still clenched.

I drew him down beside me. We took our time. His palm rested against my side while I kissed him again, and the room grew quiet around the sound of our breathing.

At some point, the music stopped.

At some point after that, I lost track of the exact number of buttons still doing their job.

Noah lifted his head.

"Are you okay?"

I brushed his hair out of his eyes.

"Very. You're allowed to look pleased about it."

He smiled so broadly that I pulled him back down on principle.

That was when the front door unlocked.

We both froze.

The keypad sounded its short confirmation tone. The door opened.

Grant stood on the threshold holding a paper bag from the restaurant where we had eaten on Friday.

His eyes went from my open collar to Noah's hand at my waist.

For a second, nobody moved.

Then Grant said, very clearly, "Miles, what is he doing here?"