Page 91 of Habibi: Always and Forever
TEA AFTER PRIDE
T he flat had that late-evening stillness I value.
Curtains drawn, the streetlamps outside turning the edges of the drape’s amber, the air faintly perfumed with bergamot from the pot steeping in the kitchen.
Pride was equally pleasant and horrific.
Probably the new normal since I met Matt.
Doubt and anxiety still set between us during each date, and I still didn’t know how to let someone into my own world completely.
I’d just settled with my mug when the knock came. Firm enough to be certain, unhurried enough to feel inevitable. Perfection.
When I opened the door, Matt stood there, leaning against the frame.
His hair was still tousled from the breeze, a little damp at the temples from the heat of the day, and there was a looseness in his stance that London’s chaos had not managed to shake out of him.
This man was everything I ever wanted, and yet my body told me to turn into concrete.
“Evening,” he said, the word carrying the low warmth of someone who’d already decided to stay.
“It is,” I replied, stepping back.
Matt smiled and slipped inside. He knew where to set his coat and how to toe off his shoes, so they landed neatly against the skirting board, not adrift in the hallway like an accusation.
“I’ve made tea,” I said, heading towards the kitchen without asking if he wanted any.
“Of course you have,” he said, following at a pace that suggested he might have enjoyed watching me pretend I wasn’t pleased to see him.
The mugs were already waiting on the counter. I filled them, the dark amber liquid steaming between us, the scent curling into the cool edges of the flat. The pleasure of it all.
Matt looked around. “Mugs are in the cupboard by the window?”
“I haven’t rearranged the kitchen in the last forty-eight hours,” I said. “I prefer predictability.”
“And then you are dating me? I would say that is a risk,” he replied.
I tried to loosen up a bit. But as always, my body failed me. “Don’t say the D word. It makes me nervous.”
“Dick?”
If there was a material harder than concrete, I probably turned into that in this moment. Accompanied by a face redder than a strawberry. “Dating,” I said walking back into the living room. “But I guess the other word too.”
We curled up on the sofa and for a time, we drank in silence.
The lamplight softened the lines of the room, warming the spines of the books stacked on the side table.
Outside, the city’s noises came muted: the hiss of tyres on damp tarmac, a bus groaning as it slowed, someone laughing in the street, the sound carried upward until it thinned and vanished.
“You didn’t look like you hated Pride the other day,” Matt said eventually, his mug cradled between both hands.
“I was tolerating it,” I said, which was close enough to truth.
“That’s practically enjoyment for you.”
I sipped my tea. “I was distracted.”
His mouth quirked. “By me?”
“By the alarming number of shirtless men in glitter…and you.”
“As you should.”
I let the comment pass without rebuttal.
He shifted, setting his mug down on the table with a muted clink. The cushions dipped under his weight as he leaned a little nearer, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushed mine. The scent of his aftershave threaded itself into the faint tobacco that still lived in the air from earlier.
“You always sit over there,” he murmured, glancing at the unclaimed space between us.
“I like symmetry,” I said.
“Mm.” His knee pressed lightly against mine. The warmth crept in slow, deliberate inches, the sort that announces itself not with a jolt but with a steady claim.
“You keep everything so precise,” he said, his gaze roaming the shelves. “Even your chaos is in straight lines.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Does it ever get tiring?”
“The alternative is worse.”
He nodded as if cataloguing the answer for later use. I had the sense I’d been doing the same with his expressions all evening.
The pause that followed was full but not uncomfortable. The lamp’s glow caught in his eyes when he looked at me, turning the blue into something deeper. His hand rested palm-down on the cushion between us. Mine remained exactly where it was, though I was aware of the distance.
“You know,” he said softly, “I like it here.”
“The tea is adequate,” I offered. “And the room temperature is perfect.”
“That too.” His smile was slow, deliberate.
When he leaned back, his arm stretched along the top of the sofa, not quite touching my shoulders but close enough that the idea of it lingered.
At some point, the tea cooled, and he rose to place our mugs on the table. But instead of retreating, he sat back down beside me. Not at the other end, but here, shoulder against shoulder, as though he’d simply forgotten the concept of personal space. I did not move away.
“This okay?” he asked, turning his head just enough that his voice brushed my ear.
“It’s tolerable,” I said, and felt the corner of his mouth curve against my hair.
We stayed like that for a long time, the flat’s quiet wrapping around us, the day’s residue of noise finally fading.
His breathing was steady, warm through the fabric of his shirt where our arms touched.
My own posture, which usually defaults to a level of formality suitable for interviews and funerals, loosened without my consent.
When I finally turned my head to look at him, he was watching me in that steady way he had as though there were nothing else in the room worth his attention. Breathe, Andrew, breathe.
“What?” I asked, noticing him pinning me down with his eyes.
“Just deciding,” he said.
“On?”
He didn’t answer. Or perhaps the answer was the way he closed the small space between us, his lips meeting mine without hesitation.
The kiss was neither hurried nor tentative, but something in between.
His hand found the side of my face, fingers cool from holding the mug earlier, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. When he drew back, he didn’t move far, his forehead resting lightly against mine.
“That,” he said, “is what I decided on.”
I might have said something appropriately sardonic if my pulse had been more cooperative. Instead, I reached for the blanket draped over the arm of the sofa and pulled it around us both.
Matt’s lips lingered near mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and when he finally drew back, he didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned into the space between us, his shoulder brushing mine, his warmth seeping through the blanket.
I let my hand find the curve of his arm, tracing it lightly under the wool. He shivered just slightly at the touch, a subtle response that made my pulse speed up.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice low, a little teasing. “I might start holding you responsible for this heat.”
“Responsible for what?” I asked, keeping my tone casual even as my fingers traced a slow path along his forearm.
“For this,” he said, closing the space again. His other hand my back, pressing us closer together.
The blanket slipped further down our arms, pooling around our elbows. I leaned into him, letting the warmth spread from his shoulder through my chest. Our knees brushed, a small, accidental friction that was somehow electric.
“You know,” he said, breath warm against my temple, “Contrary to what others say, you’re dangerously easy to get used to.”
I smirked, though my pulse betrayed me. “You’re not complaining.”
“Not yet,” he replied, lips brushing my hair as he leaned in again, slower this time. I felt the press of his body against mine through the sofa cushions, a weight that was comforting and thrilling all at once.
Our hands met under the blanket, fingers entwining naturally. His thumb circled mine in a slow rhythm, a quiet insistence that made the air between us thick with anticipation. The storm outside seemed to sync with us, rain tapping a soft, urgent percussion against the window.
I tilted my head slightly, giving him space, and he leaned in, capturing my lips in another kiss.
Longer, more deliberate, hands exploring the line of my back, the warmth radiating through the shared blanket.
Every brush of his touch made the room smaller, until it seemed the only thing that existed was the press of our bodies and the steady, shared heat between us.
When we finally drew back, breath shallow and mingling, he rested his forehead against mine. “I could get very used to this,” he said softly. Matt’s lips trailed along the side of my neck, brushing just enough to make my skin prickle.
I tilted my head, giving him access without surrendering entirely, letting the blanket shift slightly as our bodies pressed closer.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “this is unfair.”
“Unfair how?” I asked, though the heat pooling in my chest already answered the question.
“You’re… distracting,” he said, letting his hand rest against my hip through the wool. A slight press, a deliberate weight, but just enough to make me notice. “And I’m very bad at resisting distractions.”
I laughed softly, breath mingling with his against the blanket. My fingers traced the line of his jaw, and he leaned into it, a quiet hum of approval vibrating through him. The small space between us seemed to shrink by the second, every inch of contact amplified by the warm press of the blanket.
“Maybe that’s the point,” I said, letting my hand drift from his jaw down to the side of his chest, where the fabric of his shirt stretched taut.
Matt’s grin widened, mischievous and slow, as his hands moved, one arm snaking around my shoulders to pull me closer, the other lingering at my side. Our knees brushed again, this time with intention, a subtle push-and-pull that made the sofa feel impossibly small.