More thoughtful touches.
The guys talk about it constantly, comparing favorites, joking about portion sizes, coming back for seconds like it’s a given now.
And something dangerously close to pride settles in my chest.
Mack’s stopped singling her out, which is better for his long-term health and continued ability to walk upright.
The others treat her with respect—maybe it’s because they like her.
Or maybe they see how I look at her, even if they don’t fully understand why.
She makes another Walmart run, and this time I don’t let her go alone.
I tell myself it’s practical.
Roads are unpredictable.
Weather turns fast this time of year.
Truth is, I don’t want to sit around wondering if she’s okay.
March is its usual New England fuckfest—half thaw, half freeze, mud one minute and ice the next.
In like a lion doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I haven’t kissed her again. Haven’t touched her. And the need to do something about it is riding me hard.
Christ, I want this woman so bad I can taste it.
It’s Monday again and there’s a storm warning.
Something in my gut tightens.
Because out here, storms don’t just roll through.
They test what you’re made of.
But as the day rolls forward, I dismiss the weather reports.
Today, she made chicken and dumplings for lunch. Chef’s salad on the side. Fresh par-baked rolls again—still not sure what that means exactly.
It was good.Really fucking good.
But the banana bread for dessert—chocolate chip, still warm in the middle—that’s what nearly undid me.
I considered wrapping some up to take home, but the guys demolished it like a pack of wolves.
Fuckers.
Maybe next time she bakes, I’ll ask her to make an extra loaf.
Just for me.
My dick twitches just thinking about it.
Jesus.
I don’t know when food became this…presentin my thoughts.
