Page 88 of Wells

Wells starts unpacking the bags while I grab plates and utensils. He lines up the cartons on the counter with the same precision he brings to everything else. Pad Thai, green curry, spring rolls, rice, something with shrimp I can't identify but want immediately.

"Plates or straight from the carton?"

He glances at me.

"Straight from the carton."

"I agree." I turn back to the cabinets and put the plates back.

I grab two forks from the drawer and hand him one. We stand at the counter and open lids and dig in without ceremony. The pad Thai is sweet and tangy and exactly what I needed. The curry burns just enough to make me reach for the water.

"Let's sit on the sofa," I suggest. He grabs three cartons, I get the other two, and he follows me over.

"How was the rec center?"

I swallow and wipe my mouth.

"Good. Exhausting. One of the kids tried to do crow pose and face-planted into his mat. He laughed so hard he couldn't breathe. I was just glad he didn't knock out a tooth."

Wells almost smiles.

"Did you laugh?"

"Not at first. But once I knew he was okay, I couldn't hold it in."

He picks up a spring roll and bites into it. I watch him chew and realize he's actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk, or checking his phone, or doing the thing people do where they ask a question and then glaze over during the answer.

I take another bite of curry and let the silence sit.

"It's always a good, if not exhausting, day after I go there."

Wells looks at me. "What is it you love about it?"

"It's just so pure. And I know it's at least forty-five minutes where these kids can laugh and relax and breathe.”

I don't cover it with a joke or deflect or change the subject or make it smaller than it is. I let it sit there between us and keep eating, because he doesn't diminish it, or me for loving it. He doesn't tell me these kids need more than yoga, or that it's a waste of time.

We work through the cartons in comfortable rotation. He finishes the shrimp. I claim the last spring roll. The Thai tea is half gone, and my stomach is full in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

When the food is gone, I gather the empty cartons and carry them to the trash. The lids snap shut. I rinse my hands and wipe down the counter, pushing crumbs into my palm and tossing them into the sink.

The floor creaks behind me when Wells steps into the kitchen.

I know he's there before his hand lands. The air shifts.

His palm settles at my waist, and his thumb presses against the strip of skin where my tank top rides up. My breath catches before I can stop it.

I freeze with my hand on the faucet. Water runs over my knuckles. I turn the tap off, and the sudden quiet is loud.

His chest brushes my back. His mouth ghosts across the curve of my neck, slow and deliberate, and the faint scrape of stubble along my skin makes my knees forget how to lock.

I press my palms flat against the counter. My heartbeat climbs into my throat. I could say something. I could lean back. I could do anything other than stand here frozen while his lips trace a line from my shoulder to the hollow just below my ear.

"I think it's so sexy what you do to help those kids. They are lucky to have you."

His other hand slides to my hip. He holds me there, pinned between his body and the counter, and kisses the soft skin behind my ear until my breath comes out uneven.

Fuck.