21
Harlow
Bacon.
The smell of it woke Harlow from his sleep and made his stomach rumble. It sizzled and popped, and Harlow followed the sound to the kitchen, where he found Simon standing in front of the stove, poking at a frying pan with a pair of tongs. He wore the same boxer-briefs from the night before, revealing slender legs with pale blond hair. The curve of Simon’s ass was partially hidden beneath the bottom hem of his oversized t-shirt, but what was visible made Harlow’s gaze linger.
Last night, during the confrontation with Jayne in the hall, he’d glimpsed Simon’s body, but in the light of day, in the absence of a crisis, Simon hid nothing. As he cooked, he lifted a foot and used to it scratch the back of his leg. The movement disrupted his t-shirt, which fell to conceal the view Harlow had enjoyed.
Harlow cleared his throat.
Simon, ever graceful, squeaked. The tongs went flying, striking the counter before they clattered on the tile floor.
“Just me,” Harlow said as Simon spun around, clutching at his chest. “Sorry to freak you out. I was trying to gently announce my presence… guess I’ve gotta work on that.”
“No, no, it’s… it’s not you. I, um, I routinely… launch kitchen utensils across the room.” Simon spared him a distressed smile. “It’s my thing. You should see me in the bathroom.”
Harlow arched an eyebrow, and Simon’s cheeks turned so bright red, Harlow was worried he was suffering from an allergic reaction.
“Oh god, I didn’t mean, you know, likethat.”
“I didn’t think that you did.” Those bright cheeks made Harlow smile. He leaned against the counter by the sink and observed as Simon scrambled to grab the tongs. The shirt he’d changed into last night—a black tee three sizes too big—read 404 across the chest. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“Y-Yeah.” Simon laughed awkwardly. “Do you think I could, um…”
“Um?”
Simon gestured at the sink. Harlow wasn’t barricading it, but he stood close enough to it that Simon likely felt self-conscious about crowding his space.
“Oh.” Harlow looked from the sink to Simon, then sidestepped several paces, clearing the way. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.”
Simon sidled over to the sink and placed the tongs in it, never once glancing Harlow’s way. Harlow, with nothing else to do, watched him curiously. Since he’d last seen Simon, his nose had continued to swell. Red and puffy, Harlow imagined it would be a while before Simon was able to wear his glasses again. He wondered if he had contacts.
Either way, he was cute.
While Simon ran the water and waited for it to heat, Harlow’s gaze snapped from him to the bacon on the stove. The sizzle had dried itself out. The pan started to smoke.
“Hey,” Harlow said, doing his best to sound casual. He looked from the bacon to Simon and nodded at the stove. “You want me to take care of that while you wash up?”
“Ohshit.,” Simon left the water running and darted back to the stove, lifting the pan from the burner. He dumped the bacon unceremoniously on a plate he’d lined with paper towels. Other, properly cooked, strips of bacon already drained on it. It seemed like Harlow was the x-factor.
That in itself was enough to brighten Harlow’s morning.
Unwilling to leave Simon scrambling, Harlow stepped in and washed the dirty tongs. While hot water gushed over his hands and rinsed away soapy suds, he listened to Simon muttering to himself, unable to make out words, but able to detect his frustration.
“I like my bacon crispy, if you’re worried about it.” Harlow rinsed the tongs, then placed them in the dish rack and turned off the water. “My husband was a man of many talents, but cooking… not so much. I came to appreciate the taste of burnt everything. Evie sometimes burns food on purpose. It’s a problem.”
Simon stopped mumbling. He flicked the offending burner off, then set the pan down on an unheated element. “Was?”
“He’s not around anymore.” Seven years later and Harlow still couldn’t say that word. “Evie and I are rocking it solo these days.”
“Oh.” Simon turned away from the stove. He frowned. “… I’m sorry. That must be tough.”
“It has its moments.” Harlow chuckled and left the sink, coming to join Simon at the stove. He hadn’t wanted the conversation to get serious—all he wanted was to see Simon smile again—to rediscover the man he’d met the night before who’d stood so resolute in the face of adversity. “But,” Harlow leaned over, crowding Simon’s personal space as he selected one of the burned pieces of bacon. With one in hand, he drew back. Petrichor and jasmine followed. “It’s not all bad. It’s given me tremendous perspective.”
Simon looked ready to melt through the floor. “P-Perspective?”
