Niles Varden had always believed feelings were easier when properly named.
Friendship was friendship. Attraction was attraction. Machines had manuals, problems had causes, and people usually meant what they said if you listened carefully enough.
Then Honey ruined that system by doing nothing unusual.
It began with details he had known for years becoming impossible to ignore. A smile. A voice from his kitchen. The fact that he could recognize Honey's footsteps before the knock came.
He spent two weeks being irritated about it.
Then three nights researching flirting.
Maintain eye contact. Reduce physical distance. Lower your voice. Create tension.
Niles read every suggestion like a maintenance bulletin written by idiots.
Still, he tried.
The first attempt lasted four seconds before Honey asked why he was staring. The second involved sitting closer on the sofa, which he executed so mechanically that he nearly laughed afterward.
Tonight, he had decided to improve.
He had showered after work and changed into a white tank, damp hair falling over his forehead. A red apple rested in one hand.
Niles remembered one stupid article claiming eye contact while eating could appear suggestive.
He had dismissed it.
Then tried it anyway.
His fingers tightened around the apple.
He lifted it slowly, eyes staying on Honey, and took a deliberate bite.
Juice caught at the corner of his mouth and slipped along his jaw. His throat moved as he swallowed.
For several seconds, he looked convincing.
Broad shoulders beneath thin straps. Wet hair. Heavy gaze. One large hand curled around the red fruit.
Then he realized he had no idea whether it was working. The confidence vanished from his eyes first.
His shoulders went stiff. The apple lowered.
Niles stared at Honey with the concentrated anxiety of a man waiting for a warning light to change.
Silence stretched.
Was that subtle?
...The apple. I meant, was eating the apple subtle. Not the— never mind.
