Oh, I think we all know who you want to be screwing… and it’s not Floris.
Floris
everyone who meets me wants to screw me, so why would Greg be any different
Nils
no, they all want you to go fuck yourself, which is not the same
Me
can we focus on me, please? Floris’s ego needs no stroking.
Nils
True, true
Me
Besides, I don’t want to screw Bash. I want him to screw me.
Floris
*wiping a tear away* Greg made a sex joke. Such a proud moment…
These guys always cracked me up, but I also felt the love and acceptance underneath it all. All joking and teasing aside, they had my back and they always would. It gave me the courage I needed to face the day… and Bash.
I mumbled a quick greeting as I emerged from my bedroom and headed straight for the bathroom. The shower woke me up properly and by the time I was dressed and had my hair done, I felt ready. Mostly.
He was sitting at our small table with coffee and what appeared to be the same textbook he’d been pretending to read yesterday morning. The difference was that now, when our eyes met, neither of us looked away immediately.
“Mornin’,” he said, his voice slightly rough with something that made my stomach flutter.
“Good morning,” I replied, accepting the mug of coffee he’d prepared for me. Our fingers brushed during the exchange—deliberately, I thought—and I felt that same electric connection from the night before.
We sat across from each other, both apparently trying to figure out how to behave like normal people when we’d spent the previous evening learning exactly what sounds the other made when completely undone.
“Sleep well?” Bash asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he knew the answer. I’d barely slept at all, too wired from everything we’d done to do anything but stare at the ceiling and replay every moment.
“Eventually. You?”
His smile was soft and knowing. “Eventually.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that, Bash’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his expression immediately shifted to something more serious.
“Sorry, I need to take this,” he said, standing up. “It’s home.”
I nodded and tried to focus on my coffee, but it was impossible not to overhear his side of the conversation. Bash had moved to the far side of the room, but our apartment was small enough that his voice carried.
“Hey, Mama,” he said softly, his accent more pronounced than usual. “How are you feeling?”
There was a long pause while he listened, and I watched his shoulders tense.
“Hmm, didn’t Dr. Patterson say the nausea might be worse this round?” Another pause. “Did you try those crackers Mrs. Willis recommended? She said keeping something in your stomach helps.”
My chest tightened as the pieces clicked together. His mother was sick. Very sick, from the sound of it.
“What about the bills?” Bash was asking now, his voice lower but still audible. “Did insurance not cover the imaging?… Right. Okay. Don’t worry about it, Mama. I’ll take care of it.”
