Page 44 of Brash for It
“Come here,” I offers, not as a command.
She steps in.I catch her by the hip with one hand, hook the other behind her neck, and kiss her forehead once because I can’t not.She exhales into my shirt and then laughs—this small, disbelieving sound that turns into something like joy.
“What?”
“I told him off,” she states, eyes wide like she surprised herself.“I told him off and you didn’t have to do it for me.”She waves at my fists.
“I would’ve,” I tell her the truth.“But I prefer this version.Watching you draw the line.”
Her grin turns sly.“You looked like you wanted to hit him.”
“I always want to hit him.”I flip the steaks again because the grill doesn’t care about our conversations.“Not worth the cleanup.”
She looks at the grill, then at me, then back at the driveway where ghosts aren’t allowed to park anymore.Something sets in her shoulders.She straightens.“I’m hungry.”
“Emotions burn calories,” I share nonchalantly.
“So do other things,” she winks then she snorts, pushes my shoulder once, light.
“Help me carry,” I add, and she does—first carrying her wine and my beer then inside she gets the plates set up.We work the way we’ve learned: efficient, easy.The door stays open because the night can behave itself now that it’s been told who owns this porch.
We eat with ease and windows open.The room is still humming from the argument, but it’s a good hum, like electricity running where it’s supposed to.She bites into a bite of the steak and closes her eyes on a moan of satisfaction.
“Still boxed wine,” I remind, nodding at her glass.“You good with that?”
“It tastes like victory.”She lifts it and clinks mine glass beer bottle.“To grilled cheese and telling the truth.”
“Steaks,” I correct.“We upgrade when the occasion demands.”
She laughs, shakes her head, then sobers.“Thank you.”
“For what.”
“For not… stepping in when I didn’t need you to.”She worries the edge of the napkin with her thumb.“For wanting to, but not taking it from me.”
“I wanted to rearrange his jaw,” I admit.
“I know.”She smiles into her plate.“I could sense it.”
“I also wanted to see you choose your own weapon.”
“And I did.”
“You did.”I take a pull of beer.“Proud of you.”
Her eyes flash wet for a second.She blinks it away and eats.When we’re done, we stack plates.I wash.She dries.Small rituals.Their own winning ceremony.
When the kitchen’s quiet again, she leans against the counter, crosses her ankles, and studies me like I’m something she just found in a tide pool and wants to keep.
“What?”I ask.
“You’re turned on,” she acknowledges, not a question, and I feel it like she pressed a hand to my cock and read my pulse out loud.
“Yeah,” I admit, because I’m not the man to lie.“Watching you stand up?That’s a thing.”
Her mouth goes sly again, soft curves sharpening.“Good.”
I tilt my head.“You turned on?”
