She laughs and I feel like I’m a fucking superhero, zooming through the air, catching crumbling buildings before they can crush the innocents below.
“Rude,” she says when she’s done, reaching for her spoon again. “Eat.”
“You sure got the bossy younger sister down pat.”
She freezes, spoon an inch away from the delicious chili she so casually served me. Then she narrows her eyes in my direction. “You want to think again? Or,” she adds before I can continue teasing her, “you want to rephrase that? Perhaps to amend that statement in favor of all the bossy older siblings?”
“Nope,” I tease.
Laughter in her eyes, in the air. “Incorrigible.”
“The dumb hockey player in me doesn’t know the meaning of that word.”
“Liar,” she says as she primly scoops up more chili. “Don’t think I’ve missed the fact that you’re never without a book.”
I still.
Because I’ve noticed so much about her—the way she takes her coffee, the wine she likes, how she is still, months later, determinedly trying to learn how to crochet (even though the creations still aren’t turning out all that well). I know which of Nova’s Moscow mules she prefers, which game she gets competitive over Ella with. I know that she gets irritated at her brother for checking up on her but she does it with a soft look on her face, like she knows it’s from love and a need to look after her when, once, he couldn’t protect her. I know she did something called a bubble braid for Ivy’s daughter, Evie, at the last home game she attended (adding plenty of sparkle) and that she funds a lot of her classroom supplies out of her own pocket.
And I know that she cares about her kids deeply.
Something that was doubly confirmed tonight when her eyes teared up while talking about her student, when frustration colored her words when she spoke about her meeting with the school’s principal.
Such bullshit.
But my brother and mother waded through that often enough that I know it—legal or not—happens regularly.
And it means something that Kylie cares—truly cares—about her students.
Enough to fight for them.
To know them.
Yet, even understanding that…hell, I didn’t truly think she put any effort into understanding me, into knowing me.
Avoiding? Sure.
“What?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I just didn’t think that anyone noticed.”
Pink on her cheeks, another bite of chili before she says quietly, “I noticed.”
I want to ask what else she noticed, if anything she’s noticed might be something she wants, but?—
Too soon.
I should just be happy I’m here, that she’s talking to me without the crutch of a flat tire.
That she’s let me touch her.
Speaking of which, I dare to reach forward, to touch her again. And as I swipe my thumb over the corner of her mouth, I have to resist the urge to lean in and flick my tongue along the spot.
“Wh-what?” she asks.
“You had a little chili,” I say, bringing my thumb to my mouth, cock twitching at her soft inhalation.
“Oh,” she whispers, sinking into shy.
