We watched the show.
Or pretended to.
Every few minutes he stole something from my plate. Every few minutes I complained. Every few minutes it felt less like afake date and more like a night we had earned after a long week of being something to each other.
When we finished, I tried to take my plate to the kitchen.
Drew gave me a look so flat I sat back down.
“Fine,” I said. “Enjoy your domestic dominance.”
“I will.”
He cleaned the kitchen.
Not tossed things in the sink.
Cleaned.
Rinsed plates. Loaded the dishwasher. Wiped the counter. Put leftovers into containers. Lined them up in the fridge like they had assigned seats.
I watched from the couch with the heating pad under my leg and the strangest ache in my chest.
I knew almost nothing about him.
That thought landed harder than it should have.
I knew Drew was honest when it would have been easier not to be.
I knew he cared too much and pretended it was arrogance.
I knew he had big dick energy so aggressively it should have been studied by campus health.
I knew he was sexy even when he wasn’t trying, maybe especially when he wasn’t trying.
I knew he was becoming the perfect fake boyfriend.
The most perfect fake boyfriend I had ever had.
Which was a ridiculous title because I had never had a fake boyfriend before.
But still.
I knew those things.
I did not know what his childhood bedroom looked like. I did not know what his father did beyond whatever vague famous-rich-football-family energy he kept locked behind jokes. I did not know who taught him to fold towels like a hotel. I did notknow if his mother called him every Sunday or if she was the reason he got quiet whenever family came up.
I did not know the real Drew.
Not yet.
That should have been comforting.
Instead, it made me want more.
Dangerous girl.
Very, very dangerous.
