“You fit in it, y’know.”
My gaze is stuck on the bowl,
my chewing paused. “Fit in what?”
He’s studying my reaction,
his hand dragging up my leg again.
“This,” he says. “Here. Me.”
I feel those words everywhere.
They take over the room. My body. My chest.
“Drew,” I say, shaking my head. “Stop. You’re gonna fuck it all up.”
A short breath exhales through his nose as he glances down into my lap. “Nah—you’re gonna fuck yourself up.” He lifts his head, eyes crashing into mine. “Just bein' real. Don't gotta kill it. Don't gotta make sense of it. Don't gotta make it mean somethin' more. We can leave it here, Sonny. It's safe right here. Just... let it stay.”
My heart’s acting crazy, racing up my throat, wants to write his name on the inside of my mouth, wants to taste it every time I lie and say I’m not his.
“Like this Zoom-buglioney.”
He chuckles, dipping the toast,
custard dripping down the side.
It’s halfway to my mouth when he pauses,
smirk tugging.
“Zabaglione,” he says, eyes locked on my mouth, holding it out. “Say it right or you don’t get any more.” Then he repeats it again, slower, smoother, the Italian wrapping around his tongue. “Zah-bahl-YOH-neh.”
I repeat it, lips brushing the word.
His grin falters. His hand stalls.
His eyes hold me as if I just dropped to my knees. “Molto bene, angelo di mezzanotte,” he murmurs, and I open my mouth.
He feeds it to me,
and my lips graze his fingers.
I feel the warm custard dribble down my bottom lip and move to catch it, but he beats me to it.
With a slow, lazy swipe of his thumb,
he gathers it from my lip.
And now I’m not breathing,
not thinking,
not sure if I’m a person
or a puddle on this counter.
And my heart’s no longer racing,
