“Is it still going on?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Like right now, do you think you’re still growing, because I’ll be honest, the mechanics of this are already tricky. Another few inches”—I gesture between us—“and we become a ridiculous-looking couple.”
I’m addicted to his smile, I swear. It takes up his whole face in the best way. “No, I think six-four is peak.”
“Good. So your mom built you forts to help you sleep?”
“Not this big. My mom’s theory was that I was overwhelmed and developing anxiety. My world felt too big and my brain couldn’t figure out how to compute it. So she’d make these little spaces—forts, mostly. Sometimes just a closet with pillows and a flashlight. Anywhere small and contained to make the world feel less big. Said it helped reset my nervous system.”
“And it worked?”
“Every time. I’d crawl in, she’d bring snacks, we’d talk about nothing important, and eventually I’d pass out.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it slightly. “You said you couldn’t sleep after shows. That your brain keeps running and you just lie there replaying everything. Figured it was worth a shot.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. I think about all the post-show nights I’ve spent alone in hotel rooms, wired yet exhausted, doomscrolling until my eyes burned. All the times I wished someone understood what it felt like to come down from that high with no one to catch you.
“This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“It was nothing.” He shrugs, but I catch the softness in his eyes, the vulnerability he’s trying to play off as casual. “Tomorrow I should probably go back to being professionally distant and emotionally unavailable.”
“With no more hallway kisses?” I ask.
“No more hallway kisses.”
“Cool. Can’t wait.”
“But we still have tonight.” He gestures toward the fort entrance with exaggerated formality. “After you.”
I duck through the entrance flap, and the world shrinks in the best possible way. Inside, the sheets filter the candlelight into something warmer and golden, transforming the sleek modern living room so it feels like a childhood memory I never actually had. The cushions beneath me are soft but supportive. Spices and sweetness and melted cheese perfume the air.
It’s cozy. It’s intimate. It’s the least fancy thing that’s happened to me in years, and yet this is the most luxurious feeling I’ve ever had. Seen. Supported. Dare I say…wanted? What kind of man builds forts for a girl he doesn’t want?
Taio follows me in, folding his long body into the space with more grace than should be possible for someone his size. He settles across from me, the cast-iron skillet between us like a centerpiece, steam still rising from the bubbling dip.
“Careful,” he warns as I reach for the bag of tortilla chips. “It’s still hot. I literally just took it off the stove.”
I scoop a chip through the dip anyway, blowing on it impatiently before taking a bite. The flavor explodes across my tongue—creamy cheese, spicy chorizo, the sharp kick of green chiles—and I actually moan.
“Mmmm. Oh my God.”
“Good?”
“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Oh fuck, it’s so good it hurts.” I dunk another chip into the dip, scooping out a greedy portion of cheesy, chorizo decadence. “So good,” I groan again through a mouthful.
“Okay, this is getting a little pornographic.”
I hand him a chip. “Dig in.”
“I would but I’m afraid of losing a finger.”
Another dip-loaded chip inches from my lips, I poke my tongue out at him. “I told you I was hungry.”
“Yeah, but I thought you meant ‘people’ hungry. Not ravenous-little-a-T-rex hungry.”
“Well, now you know I do not eat like a lady.”
He laughs. “My new favorite thing about you. Actually, nope. Eating like Cookie Monster is still second to your Looney Tunes T-shirt shrine.”
“Hilarious. Well, my favorite thing about you is the way you make cheese dip. What other hidden talents do you have in the kitchen?”
“Literally none. I can make exactly three things: this dip, scrambled eggs, and reservations.”
