His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Move in with me.” It’s a half question, half statement. I’m not really asking. Now that I’ve said it, I have no idea why we haven’t done it before now. We barely spend more than a half hour away from each other. The nights apart are few and far between, and I hate them. Paying rent on two places makes no sense. My plan’s genius.
“I don’t know if that’s—”
“Ken.”I’m not asking.I know he can see it on my face. He can argue if he feels like it, but he’ll give in. He always does.
He sighs and puts his fork down, neglecting the piece he’d been about to eat. What poor form. “Into your place?”
“Something wrong with it?” It’s bigger than his. Closer to HQ. The point is that we wouldn’t behere, and we’d be together. Otherwise, I don’t give a fuck. We’re stuck in this forever, and neither of us gets to leave. “We can get a new place if you want. Or we can look around and buy a house.” I like my apartment, but if he wants somewhere else, then I’ll make it happen.
“Buy a house,” he repeats.
“It’s more maintenance, but whatever floats your boat.”
“My lease isn’t up for another six months.”
“I’m sure we can arrange something.” We have enough people in our back pockets; we can get him out of it in days.
He licks his lips and stares down at our plate, like it’s going to give him some kind of coherent answer. If our crockery starts talking to us, they’re going in the bin, and we’re getting new ones.
“Your place is fine,” Kendrick says. “We can get some boxes after work tonight and start packing.”
Good. Now that we’ve worked that out— “Are you done eating?” I ask, pointing at the last two pancakes. Poor neglected, flat deliciousness, just waiting for me to eat them.
“No.”
“How about we share, one each?” I’m not much into sharing, but I can make an exception for him. What’s mine is his, and all that.
“You already had eight.”
“But Icouldhave nine.” It’s basically a snack. My ability to put away food is only eclipsed by Kendrick’s ability to make five-star food. Match made in heaven. He cooks; I eat. What better arrangement is there than that?
“That’s an uneven number.”
I’m not the one that has to have the stereo on even numbers—or a five, apparently, which makesnosense. “The easiest solution here is giving them both to me. It’d make an even ten.”
He kisses my forehead, lingering, and then pushes the plate my way, and I happily make my way through the last two. Sugar and lemon on pancakes: the best flavour combination in the world. Who needs fancy when simple is best?
Kendrick runs a hand through his curls, fingers snagging on the ringlets, his gaze glancing down my front. I love the way he looks at me, like he’s thirsty as fuck, and I’m the only acceptable beverage to quench it. I want to make him feel good even if I can’t give him everything he needs. I get as close as I can and overcompensate in other areas in order to keep him close. Selfishly dangle enough incentive so he stays. I need him, and I need him to need me too.
When he takes the empty plate and cutlery over to the sink, I crowd behind him, hands settling on his hips, my forehead resting against the warmth of his spine. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
He stiffens, and the plate clatters on the stainless steel. “I am sleeping.”
“Not enough.”
He doesn’t answer, bracing himself against the bench, back bowing and head dropping forward. It gives me more room to touch.
“Talk to me,” I whisper, lips glancing over the taut muscles of his back. A shudder rolls over him, and I apply pressure, kissing him properly. Peppering them along his spine and across his shoulder blade. “Kendrick.”
He reaches back, holding the back of my thigh and keeping me in place. “I get nightmares. It’s not a big deal.”
It is to me. “About what?”
“About—” He cuts off and then turns in my arms so he’s facing me. His dark, closed-off face reveals nothing. He doesn’t get to do that, to hide from me. Notme. That’s not who we are, not to each other. There are no secrets.
“About what, Ken?”
