“Do you have scales? Or measuring cups?” I asked, opening cupboards at random. “How about a baking dish of some kind?”
Miles pulled open a drawer beneath the oven with his foot. “Trays, in the traditional place trays live unless you Aussies are even weirder than I thought.”
“Freaky as, mate,” I said in the broadest accent I could muster, and bent to pull out a square dish. “Also a couple of mixing bowls?” I looked up to find he’d frozen and was gazing at me in mild horror. “What?”
“It’s so weird when you do that,” he said, thawing to hunt out a pair of large bowls. “Your accent is so mild most of the time, then you do that and it’s like being punched by a kangaroo.”
I grinned, taking them. “I’ll keep it as a surprise weapon then. To be deployed when you least expect it. And while you’re stunned—” I leaned in for a kiss, one that started light only to soften, to linger, every breath of him making me want more.
“Mmm, an excellent attack strategy,” he murmured when I finally pulled away.
“Yes,” I said, conscious of how breathless I felt in the aftermath, of how easily I could lose myself to even the lightest nothing. I needed to tell him. Needed to make the moment happen. I would bake him brownies, and once he was full of chocolate, I would tell him.
It was the closest thing I’d ever had to a plan regarding Miles, and having decided on it, mild panic set in. Thankfully, it wasn’t my first brownie rodeo, and throwing the ingredients together required little thought. After Miles stole a few pieces, I set the chocolate and butter to melt in the microwave, and beat the eggs and sugar in a separate bowl. Knowing Miles’s preference for cleanliness, I kept everything tidy as I went and was soon ready to combine it all and set it baking.
“You’re a god-damned baking gay,” Miles said, grin spreading as he watched me.
“What? But this isn’t my hobby,” I protested. “Just something I do sometimes.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
I looked down at the bowl of mixture and the second bowl of melted chocolate, and couldn’t but think of the first time I’d made this recipe with Dad. How simple a joy it was, making something sweet for someone I cared about. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”
“Baking gay.” He grinned and flicked my cheek. “You’re too cute.”
I had been about to tip the chocolate into the mixture and stopped to glare. “Do you want brownies or not?”
“Aww.” Gaze full of mocking amusement, Miles made to boop my nose but I smacked his hand away. He tried to get a second jab in under my guard and for a few seconds we scuffled, laughing. Until his elbow hit the rim of the chocolate bowl. It tipped, and as he spun to catch it, he hit the mixture bowl too, knocking both off the bench in a cascading clatter. Mixture and melted chocolate splashed onto the floor and over our bare feet, and Miles crouched with a hissed “fuck!”. For a moment it almost looked like he would try to scoop it all up, before common sense kicked in and he looked up in horror. “I’msosorry.”
Chocolate had smeared one of his elbows, and looking at him crouched amid the chaos, I could only laugh. “It’s fine, really. Took me five minutes. I can make it again.” I gestured at the mess. “I’m more worried about your floor.”
“It’s just a floor.” He grabbed a roll of paper towel and a cloth, and we knelt either end of the chocolate splatters. But I couldn’t stop laughing at the whole ridiculous scene, and when the mixture just smeared around with every attempt to wipe it up, I laughed even harder until we were both kneeling on the floor almost in tears, the pale wood painted in chocolate and stringy egg.
“Oh my god, why doesn’t it justclean?” he demanded, tossing another paper towel into one of the dirty bowls. “There’s so much of it!”
“Maybe we should just lick it off the floor.”
“Lick it off the floor? Is that what you do in that convict nation of yours?”
Miles threw a damp cloth at my face then, and we gave up trying to clean it because we were laughing too hard. We just looked at each other and laughed until our faces hurt, and god, I couldreallyget used to this. To the way the skin crinkled around his eyes, to the joyful curve of his lips, to how in such unguarded moments he became a completely different person. I loved him so much it hurt, and as the laughter started to fade, that was all I could think about. From laugh to grin, we went on staring at one another until I could no longer smile, the force of my feelings like a thundering drum.
“Miles,” I said, and there was no going back. “I love you.”
Kneeling there on the kitchen floor, Miles stilled, staring at me like I had punched the air from his chest. And for every moment he didn’t speak, my heart slammed into my ribs in growing panic.
“Have you been waiting for the right time to say that?” he asked, the words slightly hoarse, slightly breathless.
“Yeah.”
“And this is the moment you chose? This one right here where we’re kneeling in spilled chocolate with ruined brownies?”
It wasn’t the response of someone upset at thecontentof my admission, and a trembling smile spread across my face. “Yeah.”
“You . . .” He shook his head. “I never know what you’re going to do, because as soon as I think I’ve got you figured out, you go and do something like this!Andyou beat me to it! I had a whole speech planned.”
“Do you mean . . .?” I swallowed hard, unable to finish the question.
“Yes, idiot!” he answered as though I had, and spread his arms in a hopeless little shrug. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you for months, since like . . . the second day in London if I’m being honest. I know that’s ridiculous because who falls in love that fast, but . . .” He cupped my cheeks and leaned his forehead to mine, a soft smile curving his lips. “Perhaps I’ve just been a little bit in love with you for a long time.”
