Page 126 of I Think They Love You

Mikah’s “You can do it, Uncle Denzie!” stops him from asking.

Braylon’s breaths sync with his. Denz remembers watching him do this dozens of times and, honestly, it’s a fucking grilled cheese. If he can’t do this, how the hell will he run aForbes-ranked company?

“Just a sandwich,” he whispers.

Braylon hums his agreement against Denz’s temple. It’s enough for him to angle the spatula, jam the blade under the bread, and—

Flip his sandwich onto the hardwood floor.

“Motherfu—”

Mikah’s wild giggling and Braylon’s low, deep laugh cut Denzoff. For a brief second, he forgets about the greasy, splattered cheese at his bare feet. Or how he once again failed at the simplest task.

Denz steps back to let Mikah help Braylon clean up the mess. They share crinkle-eyed smiles while building a new sandwich. Warmth radiates on each side of him as they cook together.

On the living room floor, Mikah crammed between them, Braylon cues up the movie. Denz passes out the juice pouches. Maple syrup drips down Mikah’s chin after his first bite. They leave the lights off. Only the bluish glow of the TV fills the apartment.

For an hour and forty-two minutes, Denz is out of his own head. He laughs with Mikah. Gets tangled in the way the art and music and emotion fuse with his bones. At his periphery, blurred but somehow still so crisp, Braylon grins.

When the end credits roll, Mikah’s knocked out, drooling on Denz’s chest.

After Kami, looking flushed and happy, picks him up, Denz washes the dishes while Braylon dries.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a kettle.”

“We’re not tea drinkers,” Denz says, hip propped against the kitchen island.

“How uncivilized.” Braylon dodges the wet sponge chucked at him. “What about when you’re sick? Can’t sleep?”

Denz runs a dry cloth across the spotless counters.

He doesn’t want to talk about how he wakes up with a gasp, a corkscrew in his chest. His constant thoughts about what the aunties said the other day. About losing everything because he’s not enough. The restless turning in bed. Echoes ofone of them better step it uphaunting him until his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

“I don’t have any trouble sleeping.”

“Just ’cause you’re great at lying to everyone else,” Braylon says, “doesn’t mean it works on me.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

Braylon eyes him for a beat. Denz doesn’t flinch. He means it.He’ll figure things out. But he won’t solve anything right now, especially not when Braylon peels his gray T-shirt away from his stomach, giving Denz a glimpse of his abdomen as he dabs at a maroon stain.

“How does openingonejuice pouch make such a mess?”

Denz laughs. “Talk to Jamie about that.”

“I should get this in the wash.”

Braylon reaches for his phone and keys, and Denz shouts, “You can wash it here!” before he realizes what he’s doing.

Braylon pauses, one eyebrow flexed.

Denz manages to lower his voice to a reasonable volume when he says, “It’s a long drive home. The stain might set. All that cranberry concentrate in those juices. I have a… machine.”

He waves a hand in the general direction of the laundry space.

The hem of Braylon’s shirt is still gripped by one hand, exposing more skin. God bless a lifetime of swimming.

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