Having them once was a cruel, cruel punishment. To know how they felt, tasted, sounded, only for them to be torn from me. Time chipped away at those vivid sensations, stealing pieces here and there until they faded into a fragmented short film. But then I’d spot Andrea on campus or hear one of Cade’s favorite songs and I’d be thrown back to a time where our bodies connected in the most unholy sin.
As if I wasn’t horny enough, an adorably sleepy Cade opens the slider, his hair flattened on one side, the other sticking out like a mad scientist after an experiment gone wrong. He stretches an arm overhead, his t-shirt riding up to expose a sliver of pale, smooth skin as he groans.
I'm staring and I don't even care.
He squints at me.
I smirk. “Looks like you had a good nap.”
He rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Where’s everyone?”
I pluck the steaks off the grill and pile them onto a serving dish.
“Last I knew, your dad went to his office, probably to avoid my mom, but she left a few minutes after him. I doubt either of them will be back for a bit.” I lift the plate. “Hungry?”
To my surprise, he nods.
He follows me into the kitchen, perching on one of the counter-height stools at the island while I grab him silverware, then scoop mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach onto a dish beside one of the smaller sirloins. My brows lift in silent confirmation. He nods again.
Once I’ve served myself too, I take a seat next to him.
He digs in immediately. My chest warms. Feeding him fulfills a deep-seated need to care for him.
“Everything taste ok?”
“Mhmm.”
By the time I’m finished, he’s almost cleared his plate. He pushes his spoon into the mini mound of remaining potatoes, creating a crater in the center.
“They fight now.”
Our parents, he means. I shrug. “Only all the time about everything.”
Cade snorts. Using the back of his spoon, he molds the mashed potatoes into a square. “You still live here?”
“Nah, I moved out after you left.”
“So why are you here now?”
“You,” I say simply. It’s the truth.
He scoffs. The potato square becomes a pyramid. I can tell he wants to ask something else, but stubbornly keeps quiet. It's both endearing and infuriating.
“You look good,” I murmur. “Healthy. I meant to tell you?—”
The spoon clatters to his plate.
“Why are you doing this?” he demands.
The fire in his icy glare doesn’t intimidate me the way he wants. But it’s a fire I’ll gladly stoke.
“Doing what?”
“This!” He growls, shoving his stool back. “I’mpsychotic, not an invalid!”
“Baby—”
“Don’t you dare,” he snarls, trying to squeeze past me.
