I want a meal. A banquet. I want to be mother fucking Bruce Bogtrotter, and you can be my chocolate cake.
Get your head out the gutter before you shut your cock in the door.
I find a few things—fruit, yogurt, cheese, a loaf of bread, some condiments—and set them on the counter, grateful for the distraction. “You sure you are okay with just this?”
She nods her head. “Yes. This is fine.”
When she reaches forward to take an apple, my shirt shifts again, sliding just enough that I catch a glimpse of bare skin, soft and pale under the kitchen light.
For a second, everything in me stills. The hum of the fridge. The distant city outside. My next breath.
We eat perched side by side at the counter, the city lights flickering through the glass behind her. She nibbles at the apple, bare legs swinging beneath the stool, looking impossibly soft under the glow of the pendant lights.
I tear a piece of sourdough bread just to keep my hands busy, not trusting them anywhere near her right now.
It’s too domestic. Too fucking real.
“Thank you, Trey.” She says finally, voice low. “For…all of this. I still can’t believe it’s real.”
My throat tightens.
Yup, me fucking either.
I look at her—really look. At the red hair tumbling over my shirt, the way her lashes lower as she picks at the crust of her sandwich, completely unaware she’s undoing me inch by inch.
Maybe…Maybe she isn’t trying to invite. To entice. You’re reading into things.
“Seraphina,” I start, but my voice catches halfway through her name. I clear my throat, try again. “We should probably…talk. Set some boundaries.”
Her head lifts, eyes wide and searching.
“Boundaries?”
Yeah things that might stop you from killing me or sending the wrong message.
“Yeah.” I drag my hand through my hair, stare down at the countertop because looking at her while saying this might kill me. “I don’t know how to—”
The words trip and fall, useless. I exhale, shaking my head, laugh once, dry and nervous. “I don’t know how to do this right. You’re sitting in my kitchen wearing my damn shirt, looking like that, and I’m supposed to remember that this isn’t…”
She tilts her head, her voice soft but sure.
“Real?”
I meet her eyes.
“It feels too fucking real.” I admit. The confession slips out before I can stop it, heavy and low. “I don’t want to hurt you by crossing a line I shouldn’t.”
Her expression shifts—something tender flickering there, something that reaches right inside my chest and squeezes.
She nods slowly, her voice trembling. “Then maybe we just…figure it out as we go.” Her knee brushes mine beneath the counter, every thought of boundaries disappears into the static. “I was just thinking…” Her voice falters, hesitant. “In my religion, a…a consummation of the marriage takes place.”
I freeze mid sip. The word hits me like a punch to the chest—and then Ichoke. Water sprays from my mouth in a pathetic arc across the counter, catching the edge of her plate. I cough, hard, gripping the table, eyes watering.
“Jesus—fuck—”
“Oh my God, Trey!” She jumps off the stool, rushing to my side. “Are you okay?” Her small hand pats between my shoulder blades, her voice full of genuine concern. “Breathe, please—”
I wave her off, still wheezing, trying to get air into my lungs.
