Page 11 of Chance's Choice
His eyebrow quirks upwards, and there’s amusement dancing in his gaze. “Lost in thought?”
“Something like that.”
Awkward silence descends.
“Did you wanna-” I start.
He simultaneously says, “Well I-”
We fumble over each other’s words next, both of us doing the “you go” “no you first” dance, and it ends with us both laughing off the strained moment.
“Did you want to come up for a coffee?” I ask into the comfortable silence that follows.
I’m expecting a rejection, but he surprises me by smiling and agreeing.
Great. Now I don’t know what to say to him.
He kills the ignition and we climb out of our respective sides of his truck, the park lights flashing when he presses the button to lock it behind us. Then we walk in what I hope is companionable silence together, through my building’s gleaming white lobby, to the bank of elevators and up to the sixth floor.
Chance whistles when I unlock the door to my apartment, taking it in for the first time while I drop my keys into the bowl on the side table in the little entryway. Toeing off my shoes and barely noticing him doing the same, I follow his gaze, trying to see my new home from his perspective.
It’s cold. Clinical. All white tiles, white paint, white cabinetry, and chrome accents. It’s like something out of a magazine, with very little personality. The only splash of color comes from the living area, where a bright rainbow patterned rug takes up most of the floor space between the black couch and matching entertainment unit where the TV sits. To the right of that space, there’s a floor to ceiling window stretching the length of the room, showing off my view of the city. As it is nighttime now, colorful lights in reds, yellows and oranges twinkle in the inky blackness.
Feeling self-conscious, I begin, “I only just moved in a couple of months ago, so…”
“It’s great,” Chance cuts me off, heading towards the living room. If we had turned left, we would have gone past the combined kitchen and dining area and into the hallway which leads to the two bedrooms and two bathrooms.
Standing just at the corner of the rug, Chance’s lip quirks upwards. “I like this,” he toes at the soft floor covering, “it’s very you.” Then he frowns and looks around the space again. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
Before I can second guess myself, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
“You said you’re a Little,” he begins, then casts his gaze around my very minimalist home, “so…where are your toys? Your comfort items? Hell, your Disney DVDs?”
Laughter bubbles up out of my chest and escapes through my lips before I can rein it in. “DVDs? I have a Disney plus subscription. What year are you living in?”
“Shut up,” he huffs back at me, but there’s no heat to it.
Some more of the awkward tension I was feeling melts away. It’s starting to feel like our old interactions again. Like we’ve always been this way. Like the last twenty years never happened, and I never screwed up and-
“Kaden, stop spiraling.”
I blink, surprised to find that Chance has closed the space between us and is frowning down at me. He always could read me well.
My cheeks burn and I take a step backwards. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I just-”
“I know,” he assures me. “But we agreed. We can’t change the past, and I’m done being angry about it. To be honest, I was done being angry a long time ago. You need to stop feeling guilty.” And, to emphasize the fact that he doesn’t want to revisit the topic, he goes back to his original line of questioning. “So, where are your toys and comfort items?”
He really is such a Daddy, isn’t he?
“In the spare room,” I answer, jerking my head in the direction of the rest of the apartment. “I’m not a lifestyle Little. A scene here and there is enough.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s how I’ve lived my life to this point. I haven’t allowed myself relationships, and indulging in age play on my own just felt sad and empty.
Chance’s eyebrows wing upwards, but he doesn’t question me. He just says, “Huh,” and shrugs.
I want to find it amusing that he still knows me so well, but it just stirs that guilt and melancholy back up again.
“Kade,” he sighs, and this time I do laugh.
“Stop reading me like a fucking book.”
