“How do you survive?”
“DoorDash and the grace of God.”
I set the mug down and leaned against the counter beside him.
Our shoulders touched.
Neither of us moved away.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost eight. Practice is at ten.”
“I should go before then, let you do your whole . . .” I waved. “Pre-game ritual. Tape your stick or meditate or burn incense, whatever it is you do.”
“It’s practice, not a game, and it’s not until ten.”He bumped his shoulder against mine. “Stay for breakfast?”
“You going to make it?”
“God, no. I’ll order something.”
“My hero.”
“Me or the delivery guy?”
I barked another laugh. “Definitely the delivery guy. After that coffee, I’m reassessing you.”
He pulled out his phone and opened an app with the practiced efficiency of a man who’d outsourced his entire nutritional existence to technology. Within thirty seconds, he’d ordered eggs, toast, fruit, and something called an “acai power bowl” that I was fairly certain no straight man had ever ordered before.
That made me unreasonably happy.
While we waited, we migrated to the scene of last night’s various crimes and sat the way we had before everything had happened: cross-legged on the couch, facing each other, with our knees touching.
Except now there was no distance to close, no uncertainty to navigate.
He reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“Last night was . . .”
“Yeah.”
“And this morning was . . .”
“Also yeah.”
He grinned. “We’re very articulate.”
“We’re emotionally overwhelmed. It’s different.”
His thumb traced patterns on my knuckles, the same absentminded gesture I’d used on his wrist. I wondered if he’d picked it up from me or if it was something that happened when two people started to sync.
“I have to tell Tyler,” he said. “I might combust if I keep this inside. I mean, not this, but, well,you. I can’t keep you inside. I mean, you haven’t exactly been inside me . . . yet. Fuck. I’m babbling. Stop me. Hit me with a pillow or—”
I kissed him.
