Page 11 of Strange Lad

Forest…like his eyes.

Ew.

What the fuck?

“Electric. Like a highlighter,” I rush out and have a mental check-in with myself.

Like hiseyes? Who even are you?

Brows furrowing and cocking his head, he snorts. “Nah. Too flashy. People will stare.”

“I’m sure whatever color you pick will look great,” I offer because I am so confused with my brain currently. Jet lag. Yup, that’s it.

“Too hungry to think. Food?” he asks, expression hopeful.

“Food.”

Since Oli’s place doesn’t have a stove and neither one of us felt like tackling his electric skillet, we ended up back at my house after going to the grocery store. I made french toast while he made the fixings. We navigated around the kitchen in easy familiarity, having done this too many times.

And now I’m eating, torn between my plate and his mouth.

Something has happened to my brain.

I don’t think I’ve ever paid this close attention to his mouth before.

It’s easy to see where he got his features from—eyes from his dad, mouth from his mom. I had the biggest crush on that woman when I was fourteen, which eventually fizzled out and died once I realized how weird that had been. But Oli hashermouth. Plump, pink lips that wrap around his fork obscenely. Too obscenely.

It’s like porn…with eggs.

“Do you always eat like that?” I blurt before I can stop myself. “Seriously? How have I never noticed?”

Oli blinks, lowering his fork and chewing slowly. “Huh?” he says around his mouthful.

“Like this.” I do my best to copy the sensual way he was sucking eggs off the prongs.

Oli laughs. “I don’t eat like that.”

“Yes,” I insist, “you do.”

He gets a bite on his fork and stuffs it in his mouth. Quick and nowhere near as sensual as before. “See?”

“You changed it on purpose. That’s not how you eat when you’re in the zone, vibing with your eggs.”

Pointing his fork at me, he asks, “Why are you watching me eat?”

“I don’t know! But I did, and it was weird. It looked like you were doing something else.”

He pales a little and goes for the cup of water beside him. After a very long gulp, he sets the cup down with a shaking hand. “I’m just eating,” he mumbles, shoving his plate away.

There’s still a fuckton on it.

“Sorry if I made that weird.”

“Keeps happening, doesn’t it?” he asks skeptically.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first with thebebetext. You’ve never called me that before. And then you got crazy wanting to hug me. And now you’re insinuating that I eat like I’m giving head, which, for the record, is not even remotely close to how I do it.”

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