He drags a hand through his hair.
“You,” he mutters. “You are actual fuckin’ danger.”
I reach across the bowl
and snag another toast stick.
“Thisis actually fuckin’ danger.” I grin, dragging my toast across the custard. “No joke—you’re stuck now makin’ this every holiday.”
I take a large bite over the bowl,
tip my head back to catch the custard.
And then I freeze at the words that just fell out of me?—
mouth full, tongue pressed dumb against the roof of my mouth.
Every holiday... Jesus.
What's in this custard—hope? Alcohol?
I finish chewing,
like he’s not staring at me with a smirk that could ruin my fucking life.
His warm fingers find my knee,
then his thumb drags in circles?—
absent-minded.
I lift my head,
and his eyes are already on me, burning.
He reaches for another stick.
“Nonno came once, all the way from Italy—Ma’s dad.” He rolls the bread in the bowl. “Guy spoke straight Italian—no English. I was a kid. Don’t remember how old. Didn’t know Italian at the time. Couldn’t sleep one night, found him in the kitchen. We didn’t talk. But there we were. Up in the middle of the night. Making zabaglione together.” He smiles into his toast. “One of those memories you don’t realize is a memory until you’re older.”
Then his eyes lift to mine.
“This feels kinda the same.”
I stop chewing.
This isn’t just custard and toast at midnight.
This is a moment.
AnAllison and Andrewmoment.
A ‘remember when…’
I grab another stick. Dip it. Shove it in my mouth. “Well, now I feel like I interrupted a special moment between you and… you. Like I shouldn’t be here.”
He moves in closer, settles between my knees,
fingers ghosting slow down the side of my thigh.
