His tone is teasing and I honestly can't tell if there's intent there or if he's trying to brush it off, if maybe now that it's officially later and we're walking home, he's tired or maybe nervous or maybe just... not interested. I try not to ignore the swoop of disappointment in my belly and it helps that he doesn't let go of my hand even after we step into the lobby of our apartment building.

Seconds later, we're in the elevator, alone, the dim light catching on the glitter across his cheekbones, the bits of it in his hair. I try to keep myself from looking, but it's sort of hard, especially when he rests his hand on my hip and pulls me closer, his lips brushing my temple.

His voice is low and this time there is definitely intent. My blood goes warm and I can't help the giggle that pushes free of my lips as I turn in against him, my face against his shoulder. "You're gonna be the death of me, aren't you, Mr. Zimmermann?"

The elevator door pings and I jump a little, my face likely bright red as I take him by the hand again and we walk down the hall, though I hesitate when we get to our doors. Realizing how ridiculous and... and adult it sounds, I look up at him. "Uhm. Yours or mine?" Then I realize how presumptuous that is and I have to immediately backpedal. "I mean, we don't-- I was joking, really. About the later thing. We can just call it a night if you want. If you need to get sleep or... or anything."