Page 78 of I Think They Love You

Bray steals the bowl away. “Back to square one.”

Their forearms brush. Something like lightning sticks in the space between them. Dopamine colliding with nausea, a feeling Denz hasn’t escaped formonths.

Jamie calls it “the honeymoon phase.”

Denz disagrees.

Through his open balcony door, the storm’s become a drizzle. Snarling thunder is now the soft drum of a baby’s heartbeat. Earthy scents blend with the smokiness from the bacon sizzling on the four-top range. Bray whisks fresh ingredients in a new bowl. Denz’s eyes trace over the apartment.

It only took a 3.6 GPA, and some very unsubtle begging, to convince his parents to pay for this off-campus space after freshman year. His dad suggested a bigger, lavish town house. Denz wanted somethingnormallike their old bungalow.

The compromise is eight hundred square feet that’s unintentionally gone from his totheirs.

His latte next to Bray’s iced Americano on the coffee table. His hamper overflowing with Bray’s swim jammers. The bathroom counter crowded with his skin care products and Bray’s shaving kit. Half the fridge occupied by Bray’s precooked meals and smoothies.

It’s the same in Bray’s dorm. Denz’s hoodies on the back of a chair. His favorite earbuds lost in the sheets.

Their lives bleeding together.

“Are you paying attention?” Bray asks.

“Yes,” Denz says, indignant. If only there wasn’t that inch of visible skin where the hem of Denz’s too-small sweatshirt rides high on Bray’s hip to distract him. He lingers on the stretch of hairless, honeyed skin.

“Denz.”

He startles. A smirk plays at the corners of Bray’s mouth, as if heknowswhat Denz is thinking. Innocently, Denz says, “What’s next?”

“Can I trust you to cut the bacon?”

“Can’t be that hard, right?”

“I don’t know.” This time, Bray’s eyes lower. “You tell m—”

“Don’t,” Denz warns, “finish that sentence.”

Bray laughs. In the kitchen, he moves with the same fluidity as when he’s underwater—smooth and graceful. From the stove to the counter, scooping bacon onto paper towels. It’s like hebelongshere.

That thought is so scary, so intense, Denz doesn’t realize he’s grabbing the nearest knife from the wrong end until he almost slices off his thumb.

“Shit.”

“Careful,” Bray says, alarmed.

“I’m fine.”

“Sorry,” Bray whispers into his neck. “I’m being a dad again, right?”

Over time, Denz has learned Bray goes full parental mode around people he cares about. Kami says it’s the Capricorn in him. After a tough meet or over holiday breaks, Bray’s the first in the team’s group chat checking in, reminding everyone to drink water and be safe.

It’s kind of adorable.

“Professor Adams,” Denz says, putting on his best schoolboy face, “if you teach me how to cook your world-famous French toast grilled cheese, I promise to be a good student.”

“You’re a monster.”

“I know.”

Together, they cut the bacon into neat slices. Unpack the Gruyère cheese from the shopping bag. Bray instructs Denz how to layer everything on the brioche bread.

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