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"Don't bring the Bud Light into this."
"You said it."
He laughs and presses his lips to mine. "You thought it."
"No."
"Is that our first lie?"
"Really." I stand and stretch my arms over my head. "I'm not thinking anything."
"Forgot your own name?"
"And yours. Who are you, anyway?"
"Mister O."
"Oh my god." A laugh spills from my lips. "Are you always this cheesy?"
"Basically." He stands and pulls me into a hug. "Come on. You need to save yourself from my cooking skills."
"I eat grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. I'm a normal college student," I say. "Sorta."
"You don't cook?"
"Sometimes," I say. "Not often."
"Do you want to?"
"Now?" I move into his kitchen. It's nice. Modern. This entire place is nice. But then he didn't answer my question last time. How does he afford it?
I guess that's a little personal. Money is more taboo than anything in the US.
"No. I want to take a nap then go for round three," I say.
"Greedy."
"Always."
He smiles. "I don't have bread—"
"Of course you don't."
He raises a brow.
"You're very…" I motion to his biceps. His chiseled torso. "Ripped."
"Thank you." He laughs again. "That's not why."
"Sure it isn't."
"I don't eat it fast enough."
"Uh-huh."
"I have my own cheese delivery system," he says.
"Oh?"
