Page 82 of I Think They Love You

Denz pretends the softness in Braylon’s voice isn’t unnerving. “Whatever,” he says, inventorying the kitchen.

Very few dishes sit in the sink near his hips. There’s an apron on a hook outside the pantry. A spice rack beside the four-top electric stove. Rows of Tupperware with prepped meals fill the stainless steel fridge.

“You cook more.”

“I livedalonein London,” Braylon says. “Couldn’t survive off takeaway forever.”

“It’s not a bad life.”

Braylon raises a suspicious eyebrow. “I take it you still don’t cook?”

“You want me to buy a million ingredients? Follow a recipe?Sweat?And for what?”

“Nutrition,” Braylon suggests dryly. “A lovely meal.”

“That’s what delivery is for.”

Braylon shakes his head, amused. He works methodically. He fills small gaps of silence with naming all his favorite dishes to cook and the complicated ones he’s still trying to master.

Denz tries not to stare at the flexing cords of muscles in Braylon’s forearms as he whisks the batter. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Except, in the kitchen’s bright lighting, on a rainy night that leaves everything sluggish and dreamy, he’s spellbound.

“Are you okay?”

Denz jumps. He recovers before falling into the sink. On the other side of the counter, with a wraparound Union Jack design, is a mug of cold tea.

He wants to smash it.

“Tell me about London,” he requests, instead.

“What about it?”

“Did you like it there?”

“Yes.” Braylon lays the first slice of bread in a pan of sizzling butter. “Loads of beautiful, historical places to visit.”

“Okay,Downton Abbey,chill.”

Braylon smacks his knee with the spatula. “Shut it.”

“What else?”

“Food was good.” Braylon rests his hip against the counter, thoughtful. “Some of it was a bit dodgy. Have you ever had Marmite?”

“No.”

“Don’t. It’s quite tragic. You deserve better.”

Despite his best efforts, Denz grins.“And?”

He hates the affection in Braylon’s voice as he rambles. The way his eyes glaze over, almost euphoric, as he describes places, the weather, getting lost in Soho. But he can’t stop the questions from bubbling up.

“Were the people nice?”

“I got on with my coworkers. People ’round my flat were kind.” Braylon flips the bread. “London’s like any other city. Always nice places where you can walk down the street freely. Then there’s the people who thinkwedon’t belong.” He presses his forearm to Denz’s—two shades of brown skin. “Racism doesn’t have a favorite city. It loves them all.”

Denz hums sadly.

“Was there, um… a special someone?”

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