I point a finger at him. "The fire wasverysmall. Technically, it doesn't even count. All students have been there."
"Mmhm." He narrows his eyes, teasing.
"Shut up!" I huff, laughing despite myself. "I know how to cook!"
Before I can say more, he reaches out, slipping his arm gently around my neck and pulling me close. His lips press softly to the top of my head. "I know you do, angel," he says softly. "I'm just messing with you."
My cheeks burn a little, and I smile against his chest. We sit side by side on the back balcony, plates balanced on our laps. No lights. Just the moon.
It lights up Gio's face. The piercings in his ear catch the glow, a tiny glimmer every time he moves. His lip ring too. He reaches for the pitcher and pours water into my glass. And I just sit there. Watching him.
God. How is this my life?
"Didn't bring you to the front balcony," he says, breaking the silence. "Figure your dad might take a shot at us while we eat."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Good call." He smiles sideways and scoops up a bite from my plate with his fork. "Alright," he says, holding it up to my lips. "Moment of truth. You tell me who cooks this better. Me or Canadian-you."
I raise an eyebrow, trying to hide the way my heart jumps just from the stupid way he's feeding me.
I lean in, wrap my lips around the fork, and let him pull it back. The second I swallow, I put on my best fake serious face.
"Hmmmm…" I rub my chin dramatically, thinking it over.
"Texture's…good. Flavors are balanced. Presentation's… charmingly chaotic."
He narrows his eyes, amused. "That's not an answer." I bite back a grin. "Fine." I lean closer, dropping my voice slightly. "You win." A smirk spreads across his lips. "Obviously."
Now I am finally chewing the last bite, slowing down after inhaling half the plate. That's when my phone buzzes on the table.
"Could you check that for me?" I manage to say with a full mouth.
Gio glances at the screen. "It's an international number," he says simply, sliding it across to me.
I freeze mid-chew.
I’m quitting writing. Drawing is clearly calling me y’all.
27) That’s My Boy
Gio
"Can you put it on speaker for me?" he says.
So I do. I put it right there, in the middle of the table. It’s some international number. Weird.
"Good evening, may I speak to Mr. Rava Weston?" His entire posture straightens, his face goes pale.
"This is…this is Rava Weston speaking," he answers, but his voice isn’t steady. Not even close.
I sit up straighter too. What the fuck is this? "We’re calling regarding your recent application for postgraduate studies. We’re pleased to inform you—"
I don’t even hear the rest.
Because I’m staring at him.
At his wide fucking eyes. And it hits me.
Oh.
