He leaned against the frame, arms and ankles crossed casually as he watched me walk every step of the way toward him. He didn’t hide his gaze as it traveled the length of me, and I couldn’t hide the blush that warmed my cheeks at his unyielding stare.

“Hey,” he said easily when I was close, and then he pushed off from where he’d been leaning and wrapped me in a tight hug.

That hug was warm and cozy, like we’d known each other for years, like he was welcoming home a long-time friend he’d missed dreadfully. He smelled of some sort of herb, patchouli, maybe. He offered me a lazy smile when he pulled back, his eyes sort of glossed as he held out a hand to usher me inside.

“I hope you don’t mind takeout,” he said when he shut the door behind us. “I was too exhausted to cook anything.”

I didn’t answer, mostly because I was too busy gaping at the scene that waited for me inside. His dark studio was faintly lit by warm candles, their flickering flames casting shadows on the walls and over the dinner spread in the center of the room. He’d covered a coffee table with a cream silk tablecloth, a dozen roses right in the center along with more candles. Pillows piled up on either side made up the makeshift chairs, and he’d set the table for two, with Italian takeout I recognized from a nearby restaurant offering everything from chicken and pasta to lamb and bruschetta.

Soft music poured over the scene, jazzy and smooth, and my eyes traveled over the dinner spread to take in the minimalist dorm as a whole. A keyboard sat facing the windows, his guitar propped next to it, and his laptop sat open with some sort of music engineering software on the screen. He had one small couch, brown leather like the boots he always wore, and a box spring and mattress on the floor hugged the corner wall.

It was a bedroom, kitchen, living room and music studio all in one, and with the vinyl playing on the Crosley in the corner, and the myriad of posters hanging on the wall, it had an almost grunge-like romantic appeal, like something straight out of a 90’s movie.

“Wow,” I breathed, taking it all in.

“I hope it’s not too much,” Shawn said, scrubbing a hand back through his shaggy hair. “I like candles.”

“It’s beautiful,” I assured him, even with my voice thick in my throat. I took his lead then, taking a seat on the pillows opposite the side of the table he’d sat on.

“Wine?” he asked, tilting the bottle toward my glass before I’d even answered. “It’s Moscato. I haven’t really developed a taste for anything deeper.”

I chuckled. “Well, since you’re nineteen, I guess I’ll let it slide.”