When I go to move past Anthony, in the direction of the refrigerator, I place an unthinking hand on his hip. He leans into the touch and I pull away hastily. This close, I can smell sandalwood on his skin, even over the smell of Indian food. “What will you have to drink?” I ask, ignoring the urge to bury my nose in his neck and inhale. “Whatever you’re having is fine.” Tea it is. I move around him as best I can in the tight space, and prepare two mugs. He waits until I’m finished, before silently handing me one of my own plates and waiting for me to get my food first. I dim the lights, wanting
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