he idles by the narrow walkway between their houses, balancing a container against one forearm while he knocks on the door. it's a habit he can't shake: cooking too much, plating it just so, finding an excuse to hand it off. miles tells himself it's a neighborly gesture. nothing more to it than that. "i thought you might like dinner," he greets when the door opens. "made extra. i figured it beats takeout." there's no reason for his heart rate to pick up, but it does. maybe because here, on this porch, it's just the two of them, neither of their partners hovering nearby, no polite waves across the lawn. he's suddenly aware of how long he's lingering, but truth is, he's not ready to walk back to his house where the conversations are getting shorter every night. ( @persephonyed )