“No,” I say around a chuckle. “I don’t have his artistic flair.”
He hums. “Did you grow up here?”
“I did. Does that surprise you?”
“No,” he says gently, following me out of the car. “The way you talk about him… You seem close.”
“We are.”
Isaac’s smile is slight. I can see the questions burning in his half-formed smile—about me and my parents and why I grew up with my uncle instead. But he doesn’t ask. “When did you get your first tattoo?”
“I was sixteen,” I tell him, the both of us ascending the stairs to the apartment. “The whole shop gathered around to watch. It was a good day.”
“I bet,” Isaac says, a sort of fondness in his voice that has me smiling in response.
When we reach the top of the stairs, I open the door and call for my uncle. “Raf?”
“In the kitchen,” he answers.
I shut the door behind Isaac and toe off my shoes. When I glance Isaac’s way, he’s frozen in place.
“I forgot to bring something,” he hisses, face paling.
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Neither of us expected you to.”
Isaac’s wide blue eyes turn my way, and I’m lost. Absolutely and utterly fucking gone.
“Just a second,” I say, giving his arm a squeeze before making my way toward the kitchen. My uncle’s back is facing me, which makes it easy to slip open the cupboard at the edge of the room and grab the olive oil I bought just yesterday.
I make my way quietly back to Isaac.
“His favorite,” I say, passing the bottle over. The oil is infused with chili pepper, giving it a nice kick and flavor.
“He’s going to know I stole it from your house,” Isaac whispers.
I chuckle. “Probably not. I haven’t bought it for him in over a year.”
He lets loose a breath. “If he asks, you helped me pick it out.”
“You got it.”
Isaac takes off his shoes before following me further into the apartment, his head on a swivel. We stop at the entrance to the kitchen.
“Raf,” I say, getting my uncle’s attention. “This is Isaac. Isaac, my uncle Rafael.”
My uncle’s gaze homes in on the oil. “Is that for me?”
“Um, yes?” Isaac says, passing it over.
My uncle coos happily before kissing the bottle, his usual reaction. “Ilovethis stuff. Your boyfriend’s got good taste, peque.”
Isaac flushes, looking happy and possibly a touch guilty for gifting Rafael something from his own home.
My uncle waves us in as he sets the oil aside. “Glad to meet you, Isaac. Want to help with these drumsticks? There’s an extra apron in the cupboard.”
Isaac glances my way before uttering a surprised, “Me?”
“Mhm,” my uncle hums. “Usually we do them in the crock pot, but seeing as we don’t have four hours, these are going in the oven.”
