6 Loads
Grant
Kit’s that one dude who never asks for shit—he goes there and handles it. Most of the time it’s whatever, but sometimes it’s fucking annoying trying to read the guy.
I’m grabbing my keys off the counter, running through the grocery list in my head, when Kit rounds the corner in his jacket and just posts up by the door, staring at me.
“You coming?” I ask.
He shrugs.
That’s all I get.
I could’ve said no, of course. Told him to go back to his robot shit or whatever the hell project has him looking like a zombie lately. But Kit’s solid company—zero drama, zero yap—which israre in this house. So I just jerk my chin toward the truck and he follows.
Shopping is easy. He’s actually useful—checks the dates when I tell him, grabs the bulk rice, spends five minutes inspecting avocados. We move through the aisles smoothly. I get my chicken, my peppers, extra pasta, the good olive oil Finn keeps stealing for whatever the hell he uses it for. Kit pushes the cart and doesn’t complain. It’s comfortable.
We load the truck in the lot, with that last orange light sitting over everything. The lot’s still half full—families, couples, some lady fighting with a cart return. Normal Tuesday.
“You’re driving,” I tell him, tossing the keys and heading for the passenger side. My back’s been tight as hell since Monday’s practice, and I’d rather eat glass than admit it to the coach, but fifteen minutes riding passenger sounds like a fucking vacation.
I climb in, slam the door, and kick back.
Kit hasn’t moved.
He’s standing on the driver’s side, hands nowhere near the handle.
“Kit.” I lean over and crack the door. “Let’s go, man. Stop fucking around.”
Nothing.
Alright.
I sit back. My first thought is he’s being a stubborn prick because I made him drive. Just some passive-aggressive shit.
“I know you hear me, bro.”
He slides into the driver’s seat, and closes the door behind him. I get one look at his face—staring straight ahead, hands flaton his thighs, completely paralyzed—and the back of my neck goes hot.
Oh.
Buthere? In a parking lot, two seconds after buying chicken thighs, with the neon Kroger sign buzzing twenty feet away? This is where he wants to pull this shit?
Kit doesn’t even flinch at the half-laugh I let out.
I reach over, snatch the keys out of his hand, and turn the engine over. The dash lights up, and I hit the master window switch. All four, all the way up. I got the darkest legal tint on this truck when I bought it—Miles said it looked like a drug dealer’s ride, I told him to shut the fuck up. Right now, that tint is the only thing keeping us out of jail.
I’m telling myself to chill.
I’ve been telling myself to chill for three weeks.
Alice noticed it two Sundays ago. We were laying in bed after a heavy session, and she said I’ve been too insatiable lately. I blamed it on the season. She bought it, and things have been fine. But the truth is I’ve been obsessing over that night. Over Kit completely helpless under my hands, taking whatever I gave him. Every single day. Before bed. In the shower. Twice in the locker room in a way that was a serious problem.
Three weeks is a long-ass time to have something gnawing at the back of your brain.
So yeah, I’m not fighting this.
I reach over and lock my hand around the back of Kit’s neck.
