“It’s what my mom used to make for me when I came home from school,” he says. “As a pre-dinner snack. This place is on my way home from work, so it’s become a routine of sorts. Not a daily thing, but sometimes I stop in and have one of these and it feels…comforting.”
I smile. My mom used to do something similar, though thesnack choices varied. Parle-G biscuits. Carrot sticks. A PB&J, which I guess isn’t that different from this.
“Are you close to your family?”
He hesitates, something clouding over his expression. He looks down at his plate, then back at me, and clears his throat. “I used to be. My parents, they, uh, passed a few years ago.”
“Oh. Gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You didn’t know.” He rubs the back of his neck, then offers a faint smile. “I also have two sisters. Both younger, but they don’t live here anymore so I don’t see them that often.”
He takes another sip of his drink, and I avert my gaze.
“What about you?” he asks. “Are you close to your family?”
“My mom and I are close,” I say, choosing to sidestep everything with my father. “She basically raised me all by herself, so it’s always been the two of us. She’s kind of my best friend.”
The tension around his mouth softens. “No siblings?”
I shake my head. “I have a couple step-siblings, but my mom didn’t get married again until I was in college, so we were all adults when we met.” I shrug. “We get along and see each other on holidays, but…I don’t know, it’s hard to think of them as my siblings.”
“I get that.” He glances at me, something open and gentle in his eyes. And maybe a little sad. “It’s nice that you and your mom are close like that. It’s…That kind of bond is special.”
“It is,” I say softly.
We eat in silence for a little while, but at times I can feel him watching me. I do the same, looking at him out of the corner of my eye until we catch each other, and our eyes meet.
Still holding my gaze, he reaches for his glass, but he doesn’t drink from it. His finger just traces the rim, traveling in a slow circle. The pressure must be featherlight because it doesn’t make a sound.
I stare, transfixed, wondering how that caress would feel against my skin.
Warmth creeps up my thighs, and I shift, crossing my legs.
The corner of his mouth rises.
“Earlier,” he says, “when you said you came here for—”
I groan. “No. Please don’t repeat it.”
“I was only going to say—”
I drop my face into my palms. “It never happened,” I say, my voice muffled by my hands. “I take it all back.”
He laughs, deep and bold and ridiculously alluring, and then his hands meet mine, slowly peeling my fingers away from my face. He ducks a bit until we’re at eye level with each other, only inches away.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Are you done eating?”
I nod, and his throat bobs as he swallows. I noticed his eyes were brown before, but this close they look a little different. The color of light shining through whiskey.
He interlaces his fingers with mine, bringing our joined hands down to our sides, and my belly swoops like I’m standing on the edge of something, looking down at the distance below.
“You don’t have to take it back, you know,” he says quietly. His thumb travels over the back of my hand. “If you don’t want to.”
Something in my chest flips, my pulse increasing.
