"So this is your address? I'll try to follow you out of here, but if we split up, the directions should be fine."

I give Thomas a quick nod as I go to my car as normally as possible. Why was I thinking so much about his hand? Has it just been a while since I've held hands with someone? I don't really feel the need to hold hands with anyone. Plus, it usually feels forced, and I never want it to last too long. 

But it was different with Thomas. I wanted to keep holding onto his hand. I would rather him get in the car with me, so we could hold hands as I drove us to my place. I'd bring him back to his car whenever, but I didn't want to let go of his hand.

I thought about holding hands with Thomas for a perfectly normal amount of time while I drove back to my apartment.

* * *

Thomas was cut off from behind, so I had to wait a few minutes until I saw his car pull into my parking lot. I waved him over, and soon, he was out of his car, and we were headed inside for more writing.

I say we came inside for more writing, but that was only after Thomas basically did a whole tour of the apartment besides my office/second bedroom and my room. However, that did not stop him from looking at the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, and even the washer and dryer unit.

He made several comments about how my style was both predictable yet surprising, which I did not know how to take, so I asked him plainly if he liked how my apartment looked, and he said yes, so I'd call that a win.

He particularly liked how my living room was designed, where with the windows, you can look out at the courtyard. He liked all of the artwork on the walls as well as all the little things on the coffee table.

At first, it felt like he was making fun of me, but he told me how he liked how my space was both cozy and welcoming. I didn't realize I cared so much about what Thomas thought of my apartment, but I felt so happy that I couldn't help telling him all about my decision choices and where I got everything. He listened to every detail as we talked on the couch.

"Well, so far, the tour has been great. Great host so far. But I won't be sure about this place until I have something to eat."

As if right on cue, his stomach started growling. Not cute, little growling. Growling.

I laugh and laugh as I head towards the kitchen to whip us up something easy and quick. I decide on breakfast for dinner, where I start to make the pancake mix as Thomas stands right behind me.

"Uh hello? Did you need something?"

"I'm studying your pancake techniques. This all plays into your final grade on how you are as a host and how I rate your home."

Thomas looks deadly serious as he looks down on me. Is it against the rules to make him help cook?

I decide, screw it, and I force him to help me as I make pancakes as well as some eggs and bacon. He asks for over-easy eggs, and I give a nod of respect for knowing the superior form of egg. 

I also force him to wear one of my favorite aprons that is a pastel pink covered in little strawberries. Thomas wears it with pride, but he says we cannot be cooking in the kitchen if I am not also wearing an apron. 

It's at that moment that I let Thomas decide which apron I should wear. It takes him a millennium until he decides that I should wear my cat apron that is pastel blue with black and white doodles of cats all over it.

Once we are dressed appropriately, we go back to cooking, where we cook the first few a little too long, followed by some that didn't flip right, but it's all worth it when the last four come out perfect.

The eggs and bacon are cooked to perfection, so we set the table with all the food while I grab my butter, syrup, and silverware. I come back to the table, where Thomas is taking off his apron.

"No! No, no, no, you need to keep it on," I say as I fiddle with ties so it doesn't come undone. Thomas looks at me like I am a rubix cube.

"We need a picture, Thomas!"

Thomas laughs as he grabs his phone from his pocket, pulling me towards him almost as if I am in his lap.

"Cheese!"

He snaps the picture, and I pull away slowly as I sit down. I ask him to show me the picture, where he holds his phone out for me as I gaze at the picture. We both look really cute in our aprons, and it's a fun memory to keep from tonight. I laugh as I send the photo to myself, which is followed by taking off my apron and digging in. Thomas does not hesitate the second I start eating, where he fills his plate, and we both enjoy some delicious breakfast for dinner while sharing extremely relevant food opinions.

"You are so wrong, Lucy!"

"I'm so right! What are you even saying?"

"You're telling me. You are telling me! You are telling me that if you could only keep three types of fries in your life, one of the first ones to go would be waffle fries?"

"Waffle fries never have enough crunch and more often than not, they also don't have enough salt! I need a fry that is both crunchy and salty. Not some limp potato, Thomas. I have standards, Thomas."

"You have standards, but I don't? You are being so ridiculous!"

This conversation about fries lasted for about 20 minutes, where neither of us could contain our laughter after that. I laughed until my side hurt, and I would never tell Thomas that I thought his fry choices were admirable.

"Is this the part where we start writing?"

Another laugh ripples through me as I think about why we came to my apartment in the first place. But right now, I just sit at the kitchen table. My one knee is pulled up against my chest, and I'm resting my head on it. I peek over at Thomas, where he is mirroring me. 

I shove my hand out to shoo him, where he grabs my hand, and he gently leans back into his chair with both feet on the ground. His eyes are studying mine as we sit in a comfortable silence. His hand is warm again.

I hold his hand while I ask him for the rating of my job as hostess and as owner of this apartment. 

Thomas tells me that the criteria I needed to meet was that I needed to have at least four different towels in my bathroom, I needed at least one pair of string lights, I needed to have a shoe rack that is mostly empty because all of their shoes are in their closet, and I needed to make a perfect pancake. 

Therefore, my total score was 11/10. I got a bonus point for having very cute aprons.

To celebrate my victory, I let go of Thomas's hand, and I down a full cup of water. Nothing says I won like staying hydrated.

Once I finish my water, I set the glass down in the sink, and I grab all the dirty dishes off the table, and I start to wash all the dirty dishes. I start off washing by myself, but Thomas is right next to me, drying the dishes as he slowly starts to put the dishes where they belong. I play some ambient music while we wash the dishes, and I feel Thomas's hip bumping into me.

I look over at him, and all I see is a man hard at work, scrubbing a dish dry, so I lean into him just a little bit. Not only are we invading each other, but as I pass him a dish, his hands gently caress mine as he takes the plate, whisking it away like nothing happened. A touch lingered and went.

Once the plates, the silverware, the pans, and the big bowl are all clean, we can finally rest. We settle on the couch as we stare at the clock above the TV. 8:41.

"How late do you want to stay," I ask as Thomas and I's shoulders brush on the couch. He looks at me silently asking, "How long can I stay?"

"What if you leave around 10? Is that okay?"

"Perfect."