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I feel some kind of way when he pulls back from me and takes a seat at the island, immediately digging into his food.

“One p.m. atRise Up. I’m dreading it, to be honest.”

With a mouthful, he nods. “What have you got planned this weekend? No games, right?”

I pull at my messy bun, and as hair cascades around my shoulders, Jack’s eyes track the movement. At least, these days, it’s not all falling out, like it was.

“I have practice first thing on Saturday morning and then nothing until Monday. My plan is to binge-watch TV, if you wanna join me?”

He sets his spoon down, and I take a second to process the speed in which he just finished his chili.

“Did you drop that or something?” I say, leaning down and checking the floor beneath him.

A rogue grin tips up Jack’s lips. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was hungry, and that was fucking good.” He points to the empty bowl, and I feel a flush of pride paint my cheeks.

“I’m down for bingeingFriendswith you.” He leans forward and picks up his water bottle. “But I did want to ask you something.”

My stomach swirls at his question, and I press my ass into the granite countertop. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know if you ever looked it up, but this Sunday is my birthday, and yours is a week after. Since neither of us seems to have any plans, I wondered if you wanted to”—he pauses and swallows thickly—“head out for something to eat or maybe catch a movie?”

I open my mouth, but Jack speaks again.

“As friends, obviously.” He blows out an awkward laugh. “Just feels like a shame not to do something.”

“I’m sorry,” I start.

Jack holds up a quick hand, his face twisting with unease. “It’s fine. I get it. It’s weird.”

I shake my head at him, and my stomach continues to swirl. “No, no. I wasn’t going to say that I couldn’t or didn’t want to. I was going to say that I’m sorry I didn’t realize your birthday was coming up.”

Jack’s dimple pops. “So then, you’re up for doing something?”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

When I pull out a stool and sit opposite him, I find myself fidgeting again with my hair.

Jack motions to my head. “Your hair looks good either way, but down is really pretty.”

“You think?” I ask. “It needs a cut, and normally, when it grows to this length, it becomes unmanageable. So, that’s when I start piling it on top of my head and get it out of the way.”

I swear I see Jack’s cheeks flush slightly, but then it could also be the way he just nailed an entire bowl of spicy chili.

“I never really saw you with your hair down at college. It was either in ponytails forfootballand the gym or like you wear it around the apartment.” He reaches up and circles the top of his head. “All casual but with pieces that frame your face. It’s nice but also different when it’s down.”

With my elbows braced on the counter, I lean forward, eyes narrowing in his direction. “Soccer,” I say, flicking my long hair over my right shoulder for effect.

He doesn’t say anything as he pushes the stool back and rounds the island with his bowl. Coming to stand by my side, he swivels my chair around to face him.

“I like having you around the place, Hart, especially when you make chili like that. But there are certain boundaries I said you couldn’t cross.”

The tension between us is thick as I start to wonder if this conversation is really about the name of my occupation.

“Okay, noted. But I can’t promise my compliance.”

His jaw clenches as he reaches across and sets the bowl down by the sink, the clatter of his spoon against the ceramic echoing around the apartment.

“What are the other boundaries?” I ask, unable to stop myself.