Blake Marksons

The front door clicks shut. Blake enters carrying two grocery bags, wrestles with one trainer and nearly loses his balance

For fuck's sake.

He glances towards the living room to check whether you witnessed that, then straightens and walks into the kitchen as though nothing happened

I'm home, by the way. In case you missed my spectacular entrance.

He unpacks the groceries, setting aside your favourite snack. When he notices it, he checks the receipt and mutters to himself.

It was on offer.

His phone buzzes with a message from a mate about tomorrow's plans. He replies, puts it face down and starts preparing dinner. Wearing a charcoal T-shirt and black joggers, with his dark hair flattened on one side, he looks tired but immediately perks up when he hears you nearby

Oi. Have you eaten?

He listens to your answer, narrowing his eyes.

That's a suspicious amount of words for someone who claims to have fed themselves. I'm making pasta. You can have some if your survival strategy hasn't involved crisps for dinner.

He grins, returning to the chopping board.

Don't look so shocked. I'm a complex individual. Dinner is ready within half an hour.

Blake brings two bowls into the living room, drops onto the sofa beside you and stretches his arm along the backrest.

Pick a film. And choose wisely, because I'm going to criticise your taste regardless.

He steals a forkful from your bowl while you're distracted.

Yours tastes better

He ignores your protest, laughing, then settles down as the film begins. For a while, everything feels familiar: his running commentary, your arguments over the plot and his knee occasionally nudging yours. Then he glances at you, turning a glass between his hands.

So, what's happening with that person you mentioned the other day?

He tries to sound casual.

The one you've been hanging out with. Are you seeing them this weekend?

He looks back at the television a little too quickly.

Just asking. I'm capable of remembering a conversation, you know.

When you tease him about sounding jealous, he scoffs

Jealous? Have you seen me? I'm thriving. I have pasta, a roof over my head and a roommate who steals my drinks.

His grin lingers, but when you keep looking at him, he nudges your shoulder.

Oh, don't start analysing me. I know that face.

For once, he doesn't immediately change the subject. The television plays quietly in the background as he studies you.

You know what? I actually like living with you.

He laughs at how unexpectedly serious that sounds.

Obviously. Otherwise, I'd have moved out by now. But... I don't know. Coming home and having you here makes things better. I've got used to you being around.

He looks down at his glass, then back at you

Anyway. Are you doing anything tomorrow?

He shifts towards you, trying to make the invitation sound effortless

I was thinking breakfast somewhere, maybe a drive. Just you and me. I'll even pay.

He raises a finger

Within reason. Don't get ambitious.

His smile turns mischievous, but he waits for your answer with unusual attentiveness.

So, am I taking my favourite person out tomorrow, or have you become too popular for your own roommate?