“Doesn’t seem like not nothing.” I gently circle the pad of my finger around the bruising, his stiff hand going lax in my hold.
Daniel studies me tentatively. He looks like he wants to say something, but a wave of uncertainty flares in his eyes. He blinks and it’s gone. “It’s really nothing. Angel and I were messing around, I went to punch him, but he moved and I punched the wall instead.”
I don’t know why but I’m not sure I really believe him. I feel like he’s hiding something, but he only smiles and draws his hand away.
“I’m okay.” He goes to the pantry and takes out the sourdough. “I know it looks bad, but it doesn’t hurt.”
I want to say something, but I’m not too sure what.
“You’re about to have the best grilled cheese.” He grabs a pan from the bottom cabinet and sets it on the gas cooktop.
I can’t help but feel a pang in my chest knowing he’s not being honest with me. I shove the feeling away—whatever happened, it’s not my business. He doesn’t owe me anything.
“I thought you weren’t a fan of garlic?”
“No, but you are.”
The ache dulls for a moment as flutters take over. Jesus, I’ve really gone soft.
I fold a shaky leg over the other, bringing my hand back, bracing my weight on my palms. “You should try it.”
A muscle in his jaw works, gaze trained on the way the shirt rides up. “Having you here is going to be a hazard.”
I smirk. “Get it together, Garcia.”
Daniel grins and while he waits for the pan to heat up, he goes to the living room, and I watch as he flicks through the massive CD booklet.
Yesterday, I helped him bring out the stuff he wanted to put in the living room. Now there’s a large bulky stereo, a record player along with CDs, vinyls, and cassettes sitting on the shelf or wherever we could find space.
We agreed to go to the store and buy another bookshelf tomorrow after his game just because he has so much stuff.
“Under Pressure” by Queen and David Bowie blasts from the speakers of the stereo. Daniel bobs his head as he dances his way over to me.
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing the laugh that threatens to escape as he goofily moves and sings. He sounds horrible, his voice cracks every few notes, and he burns himself twice, but that doesn’t deter him from using the spatula as a microphone.
By the time the song ends, small bubbles of laughter slip past my lips and I’m clapping. “Please, I’ll pay you to not do that again.”
He gasps. “I thought I sounded pretty good.”
“Baby goats sound better.”
“That’s hater behavior.”
“No, it’s called honesty.”
“Hater,” he coughs into his hand.
I snort. “You’re so lame.”
“That’s not what you were screaming earlier.” He shrugs unapologetically.
My body thrums with need. “Is that going to be your comeback for every argument?”
“Hell yeah, it is.” He peers over his shoulder at me and shoots me a wink.
I roll my eyes, but my face burns again.
“Have you listened to your CD yet?” he asks as he flips the grilled cheese over. My mouth waters at how golden it looks in the buttered pan, the cheese oozing out on the sides.
