“Oh shit,” Max said, climbing over Benji to grab a bowl. “What is it?”
“Spicy bulghur wheat and chickpea soup,” Noah replied.
Benji paused in giving Max the stink-eye to send Noah a worried look.
Trust me, Noah mouthed. He had buttered noodles ready to go in the kitchen if this didn’t work. He was reasonably sure they’d be fine. Two things he had found out while keeping a sick Benji company in the hotel room: Max loved soup, and he loved spicy things.
“There’s a feta and crème fraîche paste that goes with it,” Noah told him, nodding down at the tray. “Hold on, let me.”
He eased the tray down onto the duvet and spooned a heap of the paste into Max’s bowl of soup.
“Now you stir it,” Noah said. “Let it dissolve.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t like the caviar thing, right? Because the crackers didn’t make it taste any better.”
Benji sat up. “When didyoutry caviar?”
“When you were sick,” Max said. “Duh. Noah asked if I wanted to do anything while he was picking up food. I took my shot.”
He stirred, the paste melting through the spicy soup and going light and creamy. Max heaped everything onto his spoon—carrots and celery and chickpeas and spicy, herby goodness that Noah had glowing reviews from all five times he’d made it for Tia.
Max took a bite.
Noah held his breath.
Max chewed. “Huh.”
“Huh?” Benji repeated, taking the dishtowel from the tray and sliding it onto Max’s lap to catch the inevitable spillage.
Max shrugged, going in for another spoonful. “Okay. We don’t have to get takeouteverynight.”
He had two more mouthfuls before he declared he had to take a photo and ran out to find his phone. Benji placed his bowl back on the tray, watching the red broth lap dangerously close to spilling.
“I can’t believe you pulled that off,” he told Noah. “He’s twelve! You could’ve made mac and cheese! Or a pizza! What’s bulgur wheat?”
Noah stirred some of the feta paste into the second bowl and held up a spoonful. “Try some.”
Benji tried to hide a smile. His cheek was even puffier than it was last night, and the bright purple had turned black. Noah fought back a protective wave and held the spoon closer.
Benji’s mouth closed over the spoonful. He leaned back, his eyebrows shooting up.
Noah waited. “Better than mac and cheese?”
“Yeah.Waybetter.” Benji looked down at the tray: two bowls of soup and one of feta paste, plus a jar of chili oil if Max wanted it spicier. “Where’s yours?”
“I already ate.” Noah smoothed down his tie. “Wanted to make you something before I headed into work.”
Benji’s smile wavered. “Today’s the day?”
“It wasn’t going to be,” Noah said, careful to keep his voice light. “Now it sure as hell is.”
He touched Benji’s cheek, right under the bruise. Benji sucked in a breath, and for a moment, Noah thought he’d strayed too close. But Benji turned into the touch, lips brushing Noah’s palm before he leaned in for a kiss.
He tasted like feta and spices and home. Noah kissed him back fiercely, holding his cheek as firmly as he dared. He kissed Benji like he wanted to leave a mark:this is mine. No one touches him but me.A good mark. Nothing like the ugly thing marring his beautiful cheek. A golden handprint. A loving bruise. Like the hickey that was going yellow on his thigh the last time Noah saw it.
A giggle made them break apart.
Noah turned. Max was standing in the doorway, smirking.
