“No.” I sit back down and set the pasta to my right. All I want is to take his hands, to maybe pull him into my lap, to kiss the frown off his face so he won’t feel so fucking lonely and miserable all the time.
But he’d probably cut my balls off for that.
“You can eat all the carbonara at the station if you’re that hungry. It…you caught me on a bad day. We had a rough call,” I told him. “I wasn’t myself.”
“You seemed like yourself to me,” he says, and I can’t hide my wince in time because shit. Am I really such a dick when I’m around him? He waves his hand at the pasta. “Anyway, I wanted to make it up to you.”
Picking up the container, I peer through the side, and I think I do manage to hide my expression this time. It looks worse up close, like undercooked spaghetti floating in a pool of water, cream, and what might be powdered parm, which only belongs on cheap pizza.
“It looks…yummy.”
He stares at me, eyes calling me a liar.
I pop the lid and dig two fingers into the spaghetti, and yep, it’s way undercooked. I shovel a bite into my mouth anyway and smile as I chew.
And then my eyes begin to burn, and it takes everything in me not to cough. Fuck, did he use a pound of salt?
“Mm. That’s…”
“I’m sure it’s not carbonara,” he says softly.
I choke a bit as I try to get the crunchy, salty, watery noodles down. “Mmmhpfh.” It takes three swallows, but I manage it. “It’s not carbonara.” My voice is raspy, and my throat is still burning from the salt. I’m going to need at least a gallon of water. “But still, thanks for cooking. It’s great.”
“You’re lying. Let me taste it.” He reaches for the container, and I panic. On instinct, I throw myself back so hard, I toppleoff the table, landing on my back so hard I knock the wind out of myself. “Oh my god!” he cries. He’s on his feet now, wobbling toward me before I can catch my breath, and he gently pries the noodle container out of my hands.
By some miracle, I didn’t spill it.
Or maybe by some curse, because does that mean I have to eat more?
“You’re such a fucking jackass,” he mumbles as I gasp for air. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” The word comes out a tattered wheeze, but I’m finally able to get a full breath into my lungs. Clearing my throat, I manage to sit up a little. “Uh. Sorry?”
He gives the container of noodles a deep frown, then sighs and stands up, marching toward the kitchen. Thanks to the fall, I’m a little slow behind him and come skidding across the tiles in my socks just as he tips it all into the trash.
“Leo—”
“I know it’s bad. I know I can’t cook,” he answers very quietly. “You didn’t need to do that to make me feel better. I’m not a fucking child.”
“I didn’t…” Trailing off, I drop my hands to my sides. “You didn’t need to cook for me, okay? I appreciate it, but?—”
“You don’t want to eat my garbage?” he finishes.
“I’ll leave that to the crows.” He turns his head, his glare so intense it could probably set me on fire if he tried hard enough. “Sorry, are we not joking about that yet?”
A beat passes, and then his shoulders sag. “I’m gonna go. I feel fine, and I don’t think I’ll have another seizure.”
“I’m still not letting you walk alone.” When his mouth drops open to argue, I hold up a hand. “I don’t think you’re a child, but I’m not going to risk you walking by yourself. You’d do the same if the situation was reversed.” The look on his face tells me I’m right, and somehow, that makes me feel better. “Also, Eastonwould literally murder me if he knew I let you walk home after all this.”
He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough his cheek caves in, and then he lets go and licks his lips. I hate myself for following the path of his tongue with my eyes, but I bet the man can kiss.
Not that I have a ton of practice, and I doubt I’d be able to tell, but for some reason, I just know he’d ruin me with a single touch of his mouth on mine.
“Fine,” he says, breaking the spell he has over me. “Let’s go.” And then he takes off, much faster than I expect him to be, considering he usually walks with a cane.
I barely have time to shove my feet into my shoes, and I skip tying up the laces so I can catch up to him in the yard.
After a few feet though, he starts to slow down. He’s breathing heavily, and as much as he’s trying to push himself, he can’t keep up that pace. His limp gets worse, and it’s then that I realize he came all this way without his cane.
