Taking the paper towel in his hand, unable to suppress a grin, I stepped closer. Without ceremony, I wiped the chocolate from his cheek. “There,” I said.
Luke glanced down at the napkin. “I’m gonna rate that a six out of ten for effort and the chivalry. Room for growth but not a bad starting point.”
“Tragic. I was aiming for at least an eight.”
“You want an eight? Eight requires eye contact, lingering touch, not just wipe and go. Bonus points if you tuck a curl behind my ear afterward.”
“You don’t have curls.”
“It’s a figure of speech. Allow me to demonstrate.”
Before I could object, he coated his thumb in melted chocolate from the brownie and reached forward, smearing it all across my chin.
I sucked in a breath, glancing toward the kitchen. Thankfully, Micah and Ezra were still preoccupied. “Luke...”
“Shh. Let the scene unfold. Stepping closer, he said, his voice low and warm, “Ollie, you’ve got something...” His hand reached up, fingers cupping the underside of my jaw. His clean thumb brushed against my skin, wiping away the chocolate before bringing it to his mouth, his tongue sweeping across the pad.
My body lit up like a pinball machine, flashing with riotous sensation, every nerve bouncing off the walls.
Luke meanwhile had the gall to look perfectly calm, stepping back with the casual nonchalance only someone maddeningly unaware could possess, as if what had transpired hadn’t forced one more crack in my denial over my unfortunate, ever-developing feelings toward him.
“Now that’s a top-tier performance,” Luke said. “Gotta be a nine minimum. Instant competitor to rival Ezra and Micah’s dynamic. We’ve got dessert-based intimacy on lock. Episode ‘Smudge me Tender’ is a success.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Without a doubt, and also committed to the aesthetic, thank you very much. Now, we should go investigate what Micah and Ez are up to, to see if there’s anything else we need to replicate for our platonic tomfoolery. They make for excellent source material.”
Walking back into the kitchen, we found Ezra and Micah locked in what appeared to be an impassioned discussion about pasta.
“I’m just saying, penne is the most vacant of the noodles,” Micah said.
“Penne is versatile. It’s dependable. You can make any pasta dish with penne and it won’t be terrible. You can count on it to hold the sauce and not fall apart, unlike, say, fusilli, which is basically a slinky with delusions of grandeur,” Ezra replied.
Micah gasped. “Fusilli is spiraled elegance. It’s pasta with panache.”
Ezra shook his head. “And yet, when cooked, it becomes a soggy sad slop. If you want spiraled elegance, select cavatappi, the reigning champ in the category.”
“Alright. Alright,” Luke said. “I’m ready to broker peace. I say we call a truce. Every pasta shape has its time, its purpose, and its place. But let’s be real, macaroni is the capital GOAT. Not just as food, but in history, so named to represent a stylish, dandy English fellow.”
At his horribly exaggerated English accent, I coughed around a half-stifled, half-snorted laugh. Luke grinned at me, patting my back.
“You’re making that up,” Ezra said, turning toward us.
“It’s all facts. I can’t believe you don’t know this. What kinda gay are you?”
“What does being gay have to do with it?” Micah asked.
“Alright, history lesson, bros. Back in eighteenth-century Britain, there was this group of blokes that were super extra, like peak bougie vibes. They’d go on these Euro trips, hit up Italy, and come back obsessed with everything fashionable they saw there.”
“I see,” Micah said, nodding. “This already sounds gay.”
“Yep, so these fellas even formed a club. Very exclusive. Can you guess the name, Oliver?” Luke said.
I didn’t want to be wrong and embarrass Luke by revealing how little I knew. “Uh... the macaroni club?” I said, voice far too high.
“Bingo!” Luke said.
“Why? It can’t have actually been in relation to the pasta,” Ezra said.
