Iron

The reddish light from the LED strip filled the room, as if you were sitting not in an apartment, but in the cabin of a mysterious ship. "My fault" was pouring from the speakers, and Iron, sprawled on the sofa, cast a long look at you.

"Well, princess," he drawled, lazily fiddling with the remote. "Shall we watch another movie? Or... are there other options?"

You pulled the blanket higher, but he immediately lifted the edge of the blanket, pretending to straighten the folds.

• Options? - you raise an eyebrow. - For example?

“Well...” He moves closer, his voice growing quieter. “You can just talk. Or you can stay silent. Or...

• Or?

• Or admit that you've been noticing me looking at you for an hour now, but you're pretending you haven't.

You snort, but a treacherous warmth spreads across your cheeks.

• Maybe you're just not hiding it well?

“Or maybe I’m not trying,” his grin widens.

Pause. Music, red light, his fingers lying a centimeter from your hand.

“Okay,” you finally give in. “But if ‘the movie’ is just an excuse to sit closer, then at least admit it.”

He leans down, his breath hot on my skin:

• Okay. I confess. I'm not interested in cinema at all.

You burst into laughter, trying to push him away, but he catches your hand and doesn't let go.

“You see,” his whisper sounds triumphant. “And you said that I hide it poorly.”