Page 43 of Triple Play
Tomorrow, we’ll pretend it didn’t happen.
We’ll go back to being polite strangers who share a bathroom.
But tonight, in the dark, I let myself feel
it—the weight of his hands on my face, the rawness in his kiss, the way he looked at me after, like I’d just destroyed something he’d spent years building.
Maybe I had.
Maybe we’re all just destroying each other, one kiss at a time.
I close my eyes.
Try to sleep.
Fail.
Because now I can’t stop thinking about Wyatt’s fire—the one he sees when the lights go
out—and the one I think I just started in the kitchen.
Neither of us is going to walk away from this unburned.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SUNDAY PASTA
Jordie
Sunday nights are for pasta.
This is a hill I will die on.
I learned it from my Nonna before she passed. Every Sunday, without fail, the whole family gathered around her table. It didn’t matter if you had plans, homework, or a game. Sunday dinner was mandatory. Sacred.
It’s the only tradition from the Dickson family playbook that doesn’t make me want to set something on fire.
So when I moved into this house, I declared it: Sunday pasta nights. Non-negotiable.
Wyatt showed up the first time because I guilted him. The second time because the food was good. Now he just appears at six PM like clockwork, no questions asked.
Grant’s harder.
Captain Emotionally Constipated likes to pretend he’s above things like carbs and human connection. He spends his Sundays brooding in his room or at the rink, punishing himself for crimes only he knows about.
Not tonight. Not if I have anything to say about it.
“Grant!” I bang on his door. “Dinner in ten. Get your ass downstairs.”
“Not hungry.”
“Don’t care. It’s Sunday.”
“Dickson—”
“I will break down this door. Don’t test me.”
Silence. Then footsteps. The door swings open.
