Which was—okay. That was a lot. Sleeves rolled, collar open, looking at me with the expression of a man who had turned around because I asked and was now not entirely sure what he'd agreed to. I was leaning against his counter in his kitchen with the low lamp and the music that had stopped at some point and eight days sitting in my chest like something that needed somewhere to go.
"Nathan," I said.
"Yes," he said.
"I've been thinking about you for eight days."
He went still.
"Not about the food," I said. "About you.”
"Wesley."
"I just want it documented."
"Documented?"
"In the official record," I said. "Alongside the bowls."
The kitchen was very quiet.
His eyes had moved to my mouth. I knew because I was watching them move and he wasn't trying to hide it, which was new.
"I planned tonight," he said.
"I know," I said.
"I have been thinking about you also."
"I know."
"For approximately the same number of days."
"Nathan."
"Yes."
I closed the distance and kissed him.
I put my hand at his jaw the way he always put his hand at mine and kissed him and felt him go still for exactly one second—the processing second, the Nathan second—and then he wasn't still at all.
His hands found my waist. Pulled me in, which with Nathan meant actually in, the full size of him suddenly very present, warm and solid, and I made a sound against his mouth that I was not going to examine.
He walked me back against the counter.
Not aggressively. Nathan didn't do aggressive, Nathan did deliberate, and this was very deliberate, his hands certain and his mouth certain and the counter at my back and Nathan Cross between me and the rest of the kitchen, which was—a lot. That was a lot of information to be receiving at once.
"The food," I said, against his mouth. Not really a protest.
"It'll keep," he said. And kissed me again before I could say anything else about it. I grabbed his shirt and thought: eight days. Eight days and three a.m. and mid-practice and the bowls.
Worth it, I thought.
So fucking worth it.
22
Eight fucking days of thinking about him—about this exact mouth, about the way his hands felt when they decided something, about the low sounds he made just for me.
