Page 121 of On His Team

Two seconds ago, I was defending green beans. Now I’m thinking about yesterday. So is she. I can tell.

Her voice comes quieter. “Are you going to let go?”

“Probably.”

“When?”

I loosen my hand but don’t move it.

Gianna’s mouth curls. Then she steals the green bean anyway.

I let her go.

We finish eating, and she starts telling me a story about Mara while we clean up. I lose the structure of it almost immediately because the story involves a guy in one of Mara’s labs, a screenshot sent to the wrong group chat, and an argument over whether a thumbs-up reaction can be considered passive-aggressive. Gianna insists it can.

She starts imitating Mara arguing with the lab guy, and I only catch about sixty percent of the story because I turn around and actually look at her. She’s leaning against the counter with a glass in one hand. Her hair has dried almost completely now, except one side has gone in a direction I know she will complain about later. The cuff of her sweatshirt is pulled over her fingers again. She looks comfortable.

A week ago, Gianna being comfortable in Hawthorne wouldn’t have registered. She has been comfortable here for years. She knows where everything is. She walks in without knocking. She steals food, water, chargers, blankets, and whatever else happens to be within reach.

Tonight I wanted her here specifically. I cooked for her. I waited for her to walk through the door. And now she’s here, filling up the kitchen like she always does, except there’s nobody else around to make it feel accidental.

Gianna stops talking. “What?”

I shut the dishwasher. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve been zoning out on my face for like ten seconds.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

I step closer.

She watches me. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

That makes her smile immediately. “Okay.”

I stop in front of her. “You can say that, but I can’t?”

She laughs. “Correct.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I never promised fairness.”

I put my hands on her waist. She sets the glass down behind her without looking. Then I kiss her. There is nothing rushed about it at first because there doesn’t need to be. Nobody is downstairs. Nobody is twenty feet away. Gianna doesn’t have an eight-minute bathroom window. We have a quiet house and at least a couple of hours before anybody comes back.

Her hands slide over my shoulders and into my hair. She lasts maybe ten seconds before deepening the kiss herself. I smile against her mouth.

She pulls back slightly. “What?”

“You’re impatient.”

“You’re slow.”

“We have time.”