Page 166 of I Think They Love You

He loves finding balance between work and his relationship. Thefights with Braylon that end in the most enthusiastic make-up sex. The little reminders that they’re imperfect.

Turns out, he loves those quiet, achy five minutes after ending a FaceTime call with Mikah too. When he’s hugging himself, trying not to cry. When he’s missing his family so much, it aches down to his toes. Because Braylon always finds him. Always folds his long arms and legs around Denz, face buried in the side of his neck, never speaking.

Just holding Denz. Letting him ride the wave until he’s okay again.

Even now, he loves Braylon watching him fill the crust. Slide the orangey pie into the oven. Set a timer. There’s a look in his deep brown eyes like he wants to say something. The same words Denz stumbled over in an Athens apartment he almost set on fire.

Denz tries to beat him to it.

“I love you,” he says just as Braylon says, “I want you on this counter right now so I can su—”

Braylon freezes, cheeks darkening.

Denz bursts into lung-aching laughter.

“I mean, I love you too,” Braylon stammers.

“Sure. Sounds great,” Denz says, already guiding Braylon backward until the edge of the counter digs into his spine. He unties Braylon’s apron. “But I think it’s my turn.”

“It’s hardly a competition.”

“Then why am I always winning?”

“I really do, you know,” Braylon says, overwhelmed by Denz gripping his hips, lifting him up, tearing off his own apron. “Love you, I mean.”

Denz stands on his toes to kiss him, quick and fierce.

“Love you too.”

He’s almost figured out the annoying drawstring on Braylon’s joggers when a pair of warm hands grab his face.

Braylon drags him back to eye level. He whispers, “I love you, Denzel. All of you. All the time.”

Something swells underneath Denz’s ribs. It’s lightning andthunder. This time, he kisses Braylon slow and deliberate. Soft, then suffocatingly deep. He buries his fingers in Braylon’s curls. Their clothes are half tugged off, hearts synchronized.

“I love you, Braylon Adams. Silly accent and all.”

Braylon laughs. Mumbles “We’re gonna burn the pie” against his lips.

Denz doesn’t fucking care. For the most part, anyway. He doesn’t want to explain losing the security deposit to his dad.

His hands map out Braylon’s skin. He discovers new places to press: “Can I kiss you here?” He ignores that the balcony door is open, and the neighbors can hear Braylon’s deep groans.

The thing thatdoesdistract Denz from mouthing his way down Braylon’s tense abdomen is his phone vibrating on the counter. He turns his head. Usually, he wouldn’t care. It’s probably just social media notifications. But he peeks at the string of texts lighting up his screen.

“Fuck,” Braylon grunts impatiently. “If you bloody stop what you’re about to do for a fucking email, I’ll—”

“It’s the group chat.”

Braylon’s head thunks against a cabinet. “Is it about our trip?”

Denz snorts. “Of course.”

Lately, his family’s messages have been less about which Carter made a headline and more about Denz’s plane arrival. What airline is he flying? Why are they staying at a hotel instead of at his parents’ or Kami’s new house—the one only he knows Suraj is living in too.

“God,” Braylon says, still somewhat breathless. “Tell Auntie Eva that a jumper fromthe mallis a perfectly acceptable dinner outfit and—”

“No, no.” Denz laughs again. “It’s not that.”

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