Chapter 18
It had been a crap day. During the lunch rush an umbrella had smashed one of the display stands, sending a shower of broken glass into the Teeny-Trifles Greg had got up at 4am to finish. Then the shop was dead for the rest of the day, meaning that most of the stock had to be chucked.
And now, after a faulty Floo connection had rerouted him to the Willoughby Wasps changing rooms (sadly empty), Greg had arrived home to find that his flat was on fire. Or at least the oven was on fire which — for a baker — was kind of the most important part of the flat.
Spelling away the clouds of black smoke and shooting an Aguamenti at whatever was burning on the hob, Greg opened the oven door to find a tray of charcoal. Right. On the table was a sticky jar of mincemeat, sticky bottle of whiskey, a sticky, half-melted pat of butter, and an empty tub of protein powder.
All signs pointed to one culprit and, trying to smooth the smile off his face, Greg made for the bedroom where Neville was sprawled on the bed, still in his gym gear. A puddle of drool was collecting on Greg’s pillow.
Kicking off his boots, Greg rolled Neville onto his side and snuggled in behind him. It was a bit of a tight fit, between Greg’s baking and Neville’s weight-training both of them were packing more muscles and curves than a single bed was designed to handle.
Neville was starting to make noises about Greg getting a bigger bed, about the two of them getting a bigger flat. Together. It was a conversation that Greg kept ducking out of, insisting that until Neville could do more than heat up pot noodles and unwrap protein bars he was not going anywhere near Greg’s Mauviel Cookware.
Now, nuzzling into the soft, slightly damp hair at the nape of Neville’s neck, Greg found himself reconsidering this stance.
“Greg?” Neville jerked awake, flailing slightly when he found himself pinned under Greg’s hefty forearm. “Wazzat, what’s that smell? Is something burning?”
“Mmm? S’nothing. Next door burnt their dinner,” Greg lied, tugging Neville even closer. “Heard them ordering a take away.”
“Oh, s’shame,” Neville yawned, burrowing back into the pillow. “Thought it might be the mince pies.”
“They’re fine, love. Sorry I ate them all, was hungry after work.”
“S’alright,’ Neville yawned again, drifting back to sleep. “Made ‘em for you, show I can cook.”
“Yeah, suppose you can.”
“So can we move in together then?”
“Course,” Greg smiled, letting his own eyes fall closed. “’M’looking forward to more of your cooking.”