I slide off the table, cross the kitchen, and stand in front of him. He's still in the chair, looking up at me.
My hand goes to his jaw and tilts his face up. His face rests in my palm, the dark eyes wet at the edges.
"I love you," I say. "I'm furious with you. I still love you. You're going to have to live with both for a while."
His hand comes up and covers mine on his jaw.
Holds.
"I can do that," he says.
"Good." I let go. Step back. "Now someone make me dinner. I haven't eaten since yesterday."
Cole is already at the stove before I finish the sentence. Dante stands from the chair. His legs are stiff from sitting rigid without shifting. He crosses to the cabinet. Takes down three mugs. Fills the kettle.
Three mugs.
Back on the counter, in my spot, I sit with bare feet dangling. Cole chops garlic. Dante stands at the stove with the kettle, the skin around his eyes still red, his hands steady on the handle.
The kitchen fills with oil and garlic and the low hiss of the pan. Dante sets my tea on the counter beside me at the right temperature. His fingers brush my knee when he sets the mug down.
The touch is tentative, testing. My breath catches for half a beat while the contact registers in the wrong part of my nervous system. Then my body settles.
I stay where I am.
Across from me, Cole plates pasta. Three bowls. He eats standing at the counter across from me. Dante eats at the table, in the same chair. My bowl stays warm in my hands. Cole doesn't sit. Dante doesn't look away from the table.
I finish eating, set the bowl aside, and look at Dante.
"Come here," I say.
He stands, crosses to me, and stops a foot away.
Waiting.
Still, he waits for permission to enter the space in front of the counter where I sit.
"Closer."
He steps in. My knees bracket his hips. His hands hover at his sides.
I take them and place them on my thighs. His fingers tighten, involuntary, and then ease. The touch is careful. His thumbs stay still until I breathe.
"You're shaking," I say.
"Yes."
Then I pull his shirt over his head. The tattoos, the chest, the body I've mapped with my hands and my mouth in the dark and in the light. I run my fingers down his sternum. Lower. Findthe waistband. Lower still, over the denim, over the metal. The ridges of the barbells through the fabric. I trace the line of them, slow, deliberate, possessive.
Counting.
Six.
Mine.
His breath catches. His hands grip my thighs harder.
"This is mine," I say, my palm pressing against the piercing through his jeans. "All of this is mine. The drawer, the rules, the trust, this. You make decisions about what's mine by asking first."
