“None.”

He smiled, pulling back to look at her. “Good. Because I’ve been meaning to ask you … were you really Team Spike? I thought all the girls were into Angel.”

She laughed, looping her arms around his neck. “What the hell would I do with a brooding, moody vampire? Even when I was fifteen, I preferred my blood suckers dangerously funny”—she leaned close—“and with sexy British accents.” She kissed him. “You were probably into Buffy or Faith, right?”

He laughed. “Nope. Firmly Team Willow. Smart, adorable, and supernaturally talented with ingredients.”

She chuckled as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “What’s going to happen to my bed when you leave?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Guess your parents will take it back. Want me to leave it for you?”

Reena frowned. She’d slept on that bed for probably eleven years but wasn’t sure she could anymore.

After wrapping themselves in the throw from his couch, they sat, talking for hours about everything from their favorite books and TV, to places they wanted to visit, to ridiculous things they’d done in college. It was amazing. Their first night together with no fear of secrets coming out. No sidestepping topics. Just honesty.

She finally got the backstory of his foot fetish—he had gone to a classical Indian dance show as a boy and had been forced to sit on the floor right in front of the stage. The dancers’ feet had been at eye level, and were adorned with belled anklets, toe rings, and elaborate mehndi. Watching those beautiful feet dance with agility and power had created a fascination with women’s feet, and all that they could do. She laughed at his story but still pulled her socks off. Then, using the practiced dexterity she’d mastered the last few weeks, she used her toes to pull down the waistband of his flannel pants and show him exactly how talented her feet were. She loved watching him in that moment of bliss, eyes alternating between wonder and rolling back in his head with boneless pleasure. She finally had a moment she wanted to memorize—Nadim, completely stripped down to his base desires. Just for her.

Finally, they roused themselves from the nest of his couch to make sandwiches. It would be a long, energetic night, and they needed fuel.

She sliced his most recent sourdough (it still seemed a bit flat to her—she regretted that she wouldn’t be able to show him her folding technique, which wouldn’t deflate the dough so much), and he wrapped his arms around her back and inhaled in her neck. He looked down and chuckled. “Are you putting coriander chutney in my grilled cheese?”

“Yes. It’s delicious. Trust me.”

“When it comes to food, I always trust you.” He released her and headed to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Just water.”

He looked at her quizzically for a second before shrugging and pouring a glass of water. He watched her as she flipped over the sandwich. “You know, I’m going to really miss watching you cook.” He put his hand on the back of her neck, rubbing her skin softly. “The semifinal results are live tomorrow, right? My dad already bought my ticket, but I can try to change it if we get into the finals. We can still do the last video.”