Page 11 of Relentless Touch

“You live like an adult,” Kevin said, dropping onto one of the island stools. “You’re an actual adult with a home.”

“Most people do.”

“Most people have a futon and a TV that’s too big for the room.” Kevin propped his elbows on the island. “You have a throw blanket that looks intentional.”

“It is intentional.” Rio opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container. “I like my house.”

Kevin’s stomach chose that moment to produce an embarrassingly long, low complaint that echoed off the kitchen tile. He pressed a hand to his abdomen like that would retroactively muffle it.

Rio looked at him over the refrigerator door. Not smug. Just aware.

“Steak,” Rio said. “Sit.”

Kevin was already sitting, but he didn’t point that out.

Rio heated the steak without fanfare, sliced it while it rested, plated it with some leftover roasted vegetables that had been keeping it company in the container. Kevin watched Rio’s hands moving steadily, economically with no wasted movement. It was annoying how competent he was about everything.

“You didn’t say anything at the restaurant,” Rio said, setting the plate down in front of Kevin. “Before we left. You went quiet.”

Kevin looked at the steak. It smelled incredible. “I was tired.”

“You were fine twenty minutes before that.”

“Tired hits fast sometimes.” Kevin picked up the fork Rio had set beside the plate. “This looks great.”

Rio sat down on the stool across the island, not eating, just settling his forearms on the wood. Kevin ate because it was genuinely good and also because chewing gave him something to do with his face.

“Kevin.”

“Really good sear on this.” Kevin pointed at the steak with his fork. “What temperature do you pull it at?”

“One-thirty.”

“Smart.” Kevin ate another bite. “Carries over to 135 perfectly.”

Rio let the subject drop, and Kevin was so grateful he could’ve put it on a card. He didn’t want to explain himself. He also didn’t want to sit in this warm kitchen in this house that felt like a home and have a conversation about what the pull between them meant or what last night had been or what Kevin’s general plan was going forward.

His general plan was not to have a plan. His general plan was to keep things light.

“So you’re a small-town person,” Kevin said.

“I like slow-paced.”

Kevin looked around the kitchen, at the mountain framed in the window over the sink. “Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

They talked through the rest of the plate. Rio had a dry, unhurried sense of humor, which came out understated, the kind you had to be paying attention to catch. He said something about a delivery driver who’d been afraid of the Glass Oak’s cat—a cat Kevin hadn’t encountered yet—and the way he told it, completely deadpan, made Kevin laugh before he’d realized it was coming.

It was easy, which was the problem.

When Rio asked how long Kevin had been in the city, Kevin said long enough, and meant it as a pivot. Rio took the hint, but his eyes said he noticed the pivot. Kevin filed that away.

“You should sleep,” Rio said when the plate was cleared and Kevin had run out of ways to redirect.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re drooping over the island.”

Kevin straightened. “Honey, I’m not drooping. I do not droop.”