Izan leaned back into the couch, his voice low and relaxed, phone pressed against his ear.
Olivia's voice filtered through, bright with end-of-day energy as the sounds of a busy street hummed in the background.
"You're walking again, aren't you?" he asked, already picturing her weaving through students and street vendors, probably with a lopsided tote bag hanging off her shoulder.
"Yeah. My stupid class ran late and I missed the bus. Again," Olivia groaned.
"And then I stopped to grab a croissant, which I immediately dropped. So now I'm tired, hungry, and very close to throwing hands at the next person who breathes near me."
Izan chuckled, the sound light in his throat.
"You're dramatic."
"No, I'm starving and dramatic. There's a difference."
"You'll be home in fifteen," he said, glancing at the time.
"I'll heat up something."
There was a pause, then a smile in her voice.
"You're actually going to cook for me?"
"I didn't say cook. I said heat up," he corrected.
