Page 111 of Serving Bunt

The inside was packed full of his favorite protein drinks, string cheese, and guava jam. The outside has been decked out with the magnetic poetry set he had bought on a whim, which he used to spell out increasingly filthy haikus that never failed to make me blush.

Including today’s poem, which he had crafted sometime between setting the table and pulling the rolls out of the oven:

Hot meat in the mouth.

Sloppy mess upon the chin.

Wait, I want some more.

Mm, just like the first Thanksgiving. You know, minus the colonialism and displacement of Indigenous peoples.

Most nights, Diaz ended up in my bed. Most mornings, I woke up to him humming off-key in the kitchen while he made us both coffee and prepped Mo’s breakfast. His toothbrush lived in the holder next to mine, and half his clothes had migrated into my closet.

It should have felt fast. Overwhelming, even.

Instead, it felt . . . right.

Like my house had been waiting for him to fill it up with noise and socks and unfiltered opinions about how the serum that transformed Steve Rogers into Captain America had actually been derived from the heart-shaped herb that grew in Wakanda.

I finished the last of the dishes and turned on the dishwasher. A small laugh bubbled out of me when my eyes caught on my open pants.

Right.

I was standing alone in my kitchen, fly undone, because my boyfriend had lovingly unbuttoned me after our first Thanksgiving together. The boyfriend that, much to my surprise, my family couldn’t wait to meet.

I smiled to myself and reached for the dish towel.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up, expecting a text from one of the guys saying they’d left something behind.

Instead, it was an email notification.

Subject: PeteRoseCity9 has sent you a private message.

That username.

I hadn’t seen it in months. Hadn’t even thought about it in forever, yet here it was, staring back at me from my phone screen.

I audibly gasped, and it must have been loud enough to wake the dog because she went from dead asleep on the back of the couch cushions to “must protect my daddy at all costs” in the blink of an eye.

“You’re fine,” I crooned. “Go back to sleep.”

I leaned back against the counter, my thumb hovering over the notification. Upstairs, I could hear muffled footsteps and the sound of Diaz opening and closing drawers.

The little flip in my chest turned into a full-on gymnastics routine.

There was absolutely no reason for me to be this nervous, and yet my pulse had picked up. I swallowed and clicked the link.

It was a new story, only this time it hadn’t been published on his main page. No, this one, titled Sweet Home Alabama, was just for me. I read:

The living room was dark except for the soft glow of the television. A 90s rom-com played quietly in the background, but neither of them were really watching anymore.

Matty was stretched out on the couch, his long, bare legs draped across Diaz’s lap. Mo was curled into a perfect little cinnamon roll beside them, snoring softly against Matty’s thigh.

Diaz reached for the bowl of popcorn resting on Matty’s stomach just as Matty snatched it out of his grasp.

“You’re hoarding the popcorn,” Diaz accused, narrowing his eyes. “Pass the bowl, please.”

Matty grinned and popped another kernel into his mouth.