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“What do you want to eat?” I shout, searching through the fridge. It’s not very inspiring—a family pack of chicken breast, broccoli, and a tub of cooked ground beef.

“Don’t you have anything in the freezer?”

I jump, not having heard Noah come into the kitchen. He looks past me into the fridge, grimacing.

“Maybe. I don’t really buy anything for the freezer.” I crouch to open the lower drawers. “Huh. Theo must have gone shopping when he stayed here. We’ve got chips, a couple of pizzas, lasagne, dinosaur-shaped nuggets⁠—”

“That.”

“What?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Dino nuggets and chips.”

I raise an eyebrow but do as he asks, pulling them out of the freezer. “Broccoli?”

“Too disgusting, the fuzzy bit makes me want to gag.”

“What about peas?”

“No, they pop in my mouth and taste like mouldy potatoes.”

Okay …

I side-eye him, wondering if he’s being difficult on purpose, but his face is like stone. “Carrots?” I ask as a last-ditch effort to get some nutrients into him.

“Rectangles, not circles, and don’t overcook them.” He nods, then the bossy little tyrant wanders out of my kitchen.

As I chop his carrots into little sticks, I think about the first time I met him. The contrast between now and then is like night and day. Back in my uni days, when I stayed with Richard’s family for a week, fifteen-year-old Noah was this shy kid who barely said a word to me. Though there were moments—like when he told me off for getting his tea wrong—where that bratty spark would shine through the sadness that smothered him. I didn’t see him for another three years after that, and by then, that shy kid was long gone.

I dish up Noah’s dinosaurs, chips, and rectangular—not overcooked—boiled carrots, then for myself, some wholegrain rice, broccoli, and leftover mince. “Noah, food’s ready!”

When he comes back into the kitchen, he’s changed into a tight crop top that says “Demon Twink” across the front and his fluffy pink pyjama bottoms—which I’ve already had to rescue from the bedroom floor and wash twice in the past week because he refuses to wear anything else in the house.

“How appropriate,” I mutter, nodding at his top.

“Would you prefer it if I were an angel? Do you like good boys, Rob?” He takes the seat opposite me at the dining table, cocking a brow before pulling his plate towards him.

“I’d say you were a pretty good boy for me last night.” The words slip out before I can stop them. There’s literally no off switch. I look down, quickly shovelling food into my mouth so it can’t get me into any more trouble.

“Well, that won’t be happening again,” Noah says sternly.

I nod, agreeing. I have no business wanting him again. I can probably count on one hand how many repeats I’ve had in the past fifteen years.

I distract myself with my bland-as-fuck food and try not to think about last night, but my brain goes rogue and decides to play me a highlight reel of my cock lodged down Noah’s tight throat. Pretty lips stretched wide. Watery grey eyes blinking up at me as he silently chokes. I slip a hand under the table and press the heel of my palm against my dick to calm it down.

“Your food looks disgusting, surely you don’t enjoy that.”

“It’s not to be enjoyed, it’s fuel.”

He scrunches his nose, then carefully cuts a leg off his stegosaurus. He chews and swallows, then moves on to the next leg, repeating the process on the other dinosaurs until all the legs are gone. Then the tails and the heads. Every move is calculated, like he’s eaten the same way for years and has no interest in changing it. He finally gets to the body, cuts it in half, then holds his fork out to me.

“Want some?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, you keep staring at it.”

My cheeks heat at being caught watching him eat. “Why did you leave the barn during the speeches?” I ask, eager to change the subject. After everything that happened yesterday, I haven’t had a chance to ask him if he’s okay. I wanted to go after him, but I saw Bailey get up and realised it wasn’t my place to comfort him.