He huffs a laugh and finally lets me go—well, not really lets me go, more like rearranges me so I’m leaning against the counter while he moves around the kitchen. It’s unfair how attractive he is. He opens the oven, checks the potatoes, before he grabs the plate of steaks and heads outside.
I watch him, following along like a puppy. “You know this is rude, right?”
“What is?”
“Being this hot.”
He tosses me a look over his shoulder. “You showed up in those jeans,” he says. “Don’t start.”
“These are normal jeans, non-spandex.”
“These are I-want-you-to-look-at-my-ass jeans.”
I grin. “Did it work?”
“Yes,” he says without missing a beat, dropping the steaks on the grill, where they hiss. “It always works.”
I bite my lip. “I like when you look.”
“I like when you know I’m looking,” he counters.
Okay, that’s… unfairly sexy.
He comes back to me while the steaks are searing, hands braced on either side of my hips, caging me against the table. He’s not even touching me yet, and my pulse speeds up.
“What were you saying to yourself before I opened the door?”
“Oh, you heard that, did you?”
“The finger guns were cute.” He winks.
Fuck me now. So embarrassing.
“Well, it’s simple. You start by telling someone one small truth. Finn says it helps ease the weight.”
“One small truth,” he says quietly, echoing the thing I promised myself at the door. “Tell me one.”
I blink up at him. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
I swallow. I love you is right there, sharp and bright, on the tip of my tongue.
“I missed you today,” I say instead. “Like… distracting-level missed you.”
His eyes soften instantly, the bossy edges melting. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I pick at the hem of his shirt. “Felt weird not seeing you.”
He exhales as if I just handed him oxygen. “Good,” he says, brushing his thumb slowly over my lower lip. “Because I missed you too. So much.”
That gets me. I lean forward and kiss him again, deeper this time. He tastes like every good decision I’ve ever made. His hand slides around to the small of my back, pressing me closer, and my whole body lights up.
The grill pops behind him, and he pulls away with a groan. “If I burn your steak, you’re never gonna let me live it down.”
“Correct,” I say, breathless.
He kisses my forehead—domestic, ugh—and goes back to the grill, finishing up like it’s no big deal that he just set my entire nervous system on fire.
