I’m not used to someone else being in my space. Sue me. At least I have pants on.
“Please tell me you weren’t about to put that in eggs.”
He has the decency to look sheepish, scrunching his little button nose when he looks down at the creamer. “It’s not vanilla, though.”
I shake my head and push off the wall. He watches me like I’m a tiger, and he’s a cornered fox. He’s got the shifty eyes and everything, looking for an escape route.
I stop next to him and lean my hip on the counter. “You gotta stop putting weird shit in eggs, dude.”
“You said a splash of milk made them fluffier.”
“Milk. Not coffee creamer.”
“Same thing?” he questions, cheeks red. Honestly? It would probably be fine. But I’ll never forget the sweet, vanilla eggs. Regular milk or no dice.
I take the carton out of his hand, and he watches the movement, pink lips parting slightly when our fingers graze.
“Please…just, give me a second.”
His cheeks are even redder when his eyes make it back up to mine. My heart kicks in my chest like it has every damn time he’s looked at me. I’m accustomed to him looking at my feet. My chest.
Looking at the back of his head while he fell apart in my arms.
The corner of the counter digs into my thigh when I push off it. It's just as sad inside the fridge today as it was yesterday. There isn’t even any butter left. It's about that time of month when I hit the store and do a big restock of shit. I normally stop every few days for basics to get me through. Mom said it was good for me to get out. I begrudgingly agreed.
I once didn’t see the end of the drive or outside my clearing of trees for two months straight.
Would have been longer if Tucker hadn’t dragged my ass to his car and forced me inside. I wish I could say I was being sarcastic. Two full months. I was surviving off the canned shit that the Meyers had stocked in the cupboards and online orders that I paid an arm and a leg for delivery out in bum-fuck-nowhere.
“I’m gonna hit the store today. Ian is coming later to grill; I said I would get the steaks.” I take a mental inventory of what I need to grab. When Iclose the fridge, Kit is still standing where I left him but turned with his back to the counter.
He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, fingers digging into his pale biceps. He’s fucking tiny. He’s always been small, but he looks exceptionally so now. I guess two years traveling, broke, and living off corn syrup and artificial dye will do that. I narrow my eyes.
“Can we call a truce?” he spits out quickly. He looks all around the kitchen before he makes his way back to me. I can visibly see the hitch in his breath when our eyes connect again. His hair hangs too close to his eyes; I want to push it back so I can get a clear view of the things he denied me for years.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…” He taps his fingers on his arms, then uncrosses them to grip the counter behind him. Wipes palms on the short shorts he’s wearing. He finally huffs and crosses his arms again. “You know, like, a truce. You…you made it clear you didn’t want me to leave. I made it clear I didn’t want to leave. But I… You…” He shrugs, like he’s not sure what words he wants to use.
I’ve never been good in that fucking category, so I just stare at him until he starts to fidget again. Even if I did know exactly what he’s talking about, which I get the idea, I’m not ready to let him off the hook. I want him to fucking sweat. Iwanthim to try.
Just fucking try for me, kitten.
“A truce. You be nice to me; I’ll be nice to you.”
“Nice…” I murmur, tilting my head.
Kit scoffs. “You do remember what that means, right? Or have you become a fully wild forest man?” He bites the side of his thumb but adds, “Would explain the hair.”
Said hair is down this morning after I took a shower last night. My curls tickle the tops of my shoulders. I push it back and shrug. “Didn’t you just say you’d be nice?”
The laugh that comes out of him is high-pitched and just shy of a little panicked. “Bowen…dear, God.” He clears his throat. Sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Peeks at me.
Sighs again.
“Bowen.”
“Kit.”
