Me: That so?
Severin: I also know that you like to eat, and that your biggest pet peeve is when people don’t listen to you.
Severin: I promise, I’m a good listener when I can hear properly.
Me: Are you asking me out on another date?
Severin: I think I am. If you dare.
Me: Would you be offended if I said I’m only saying yes because I want that steak?
Severin: Not at all, ha.
Me: I may have also seen your shirtless selfies.
Severin: And I may have seen your shirtless rugby action pics.
Me: Fair enough. Let’s do this.
CHAPTER 4
SEVERIN
I openedthe door and let out a low whistle. It’d been two days since our awful first date, and I was so, so glad I’d set aside my pride and apologized for my shitty behavior.
“Holy shit. Youarea big boy,” I said appreciatively, stepping aside to allow Rhys to walk into my living room.
“You’re no-not exactly little yourself,” he replied, pulling off his jacket. “Da—mn, it smells amazing in here.”
We’d chatted back and forth a bit more since our first exchange, and I’d been so charmed by his online presence that I may, just a tiny bit, have forgotten about his intimidating physical presence. His stutter, even in my bad robot ear, was far more endearing than I’d have guessed.
He’d mentioned that the stutter made more of an appearance when he was tired or nervous, and I just hoped this was the good kind of nervous.
“I seared the steak and put it in the oven to finish cooking. It’s a big sucker, so we have a few minutes.” I smiled and tried not to feel too proud of the way his chest rose so quickly. “Gotta say, as nice as you look, I’m missing the rugby shorts.”
His shoulders relaxed a bit and his laugh was a deep rumble. Bet if my fucking ears worked it’d be sensual as hell.
“Oh, I know it. I read your profile. I know exactly why you like rugby boys.” He winked, slapping his thighs. “You should see how many jeans I bust through in a year.”
I rolled my eyes back and clutched my chest. “You don’t have to sell me on your thighs. I’msold.”
He grinned, shaking his head.
“What?”
He took a steady breath, and something about it felt measured. I’d looked up stuttering and knew that I shouldn’t try to finish his sentences for him. I’d also found out that a lot of stutterers used various breathing methods to allow the words to flow more freely.
He inhaled again, speaking on the exhale. “I mean… we did g—et to know each other a little better D—M’ing each other, but… you’re like an entirely di—fferent person,” he said. “In person, I mean.”
I’d read that elongating the sounds helped the person to maintain control, and it was interesting to see how effective it was.
“My audiologist had a new processor overnighted and installed it this morning,” I replied, “and it’s like night and day. I thought it was just me?—”
“But you can hear and understand me okay?”
“I can, yes. I mean, everything still sounds a little demonic, but I’m catching deeper tones than I did before.” Grinning sarcastically, I continued, “The Sex Pistols are still ruined for me, though.”
He scrunched his nose empathetically. “I remember you mentioned being a fan of punk.”
