Chapter -18-
Denz’s apartment kitchen is larger than the one he had in Athens.
Endless countertop space, shiny appliances, and a window above the sink that faces a nearby park.
It’s also less lived in. Everything has that new or barely used gloss.
Right down to the marble-top island he hovers near as his nephew builds the world’s tallest sandwich.
“Mikah,” he says gently, “are you sure you want all that cheese?”
“Yes!”
“And no bacon?”
“Nooo.” Mikah’s kneeling on a chair so he’s at the proper height to add another slice of Gruyère to the pile. Thank God he didn’t inherit his mom’s weak stomach. “It’s better that way, Uncle Denzie!”
“It’s fine,” Braylon says from behind Denz.
He’s busy whisking the batter. It’s his first time in Denz’s kitchen. In his apartment . And yet… he looks at home. As comfortable as being in a swimming pool again.
Denz is admittedly overwhelmed by the sight.
“However,” Braylon begins, sidling up to Mikah’s other side.
Mikah grins up at him. It’s another thing Denz is processing.
When Braylon first arrived, Mikah hid behind Denz’s legs. He’s shy with unfamiliar faces. But Braylon just lowered himself to Mikah’s level for re-introductions. He complimented Mikah’s curly ’fro, then mentioned grilled cheeses for dinner. From there, he’s become Mikah’s new best friend.
As if he remembers that time Braylon hummed him back to sleep in Kenneth’s office.
“If you add too much cheese,” Braylon goes on, “it’s harder to do the magic flip.”
Mikah’s eyes balloon cartoonishly. “Whoa, a magic flip?”
“You bet.” Braylon relocates a slice of cheese from Mikah’s bread to Denz’s unfinished sandwich. “Even Uncle Denzie can’t do it.”
Denz fake scowls, poking Braylon’s side.
“You’re gonna teach me?” Mikah asks excitedly.
“Of course!”
Denz watches them, smiling to himself. His nephew helps Braylon remove more cheese. Braylon holds Mikah’s tiny hand while helping him climb down from the chair.
It’s the weirdest sensation. Like an emptiness in Denz’s belly suddenly being filled.
He never imagined this: Braylon in his apartment.
Not the one in Athens where they shared a hamper and bathroom counter space and so many secrets between sateen sheets.
Here, where Denz spent two hours cleaning every surface, collecting all of Jamie’s discarded work shirts and hiding his own sex toys before Braylon arrived.
Over the years, he’s done so well preventing anyone from getting this close to him again. Threading barbed wire around the heart he pieced back together with Scotch tape and goals and a career. But here’s tea-drinking, monochrome-wardrobe, bristly faced Braylon, and Denz wants him to stay.
He wants to live up to his dad’s expectations as CEO.
He wants both, and picturing that future is so easy, it’s like breathing.
While the bread browns, Braylon listens to Mikah’s ramblings about Kiki’s Delivery Service, the movie they’re watching after. He asks silly questions. Laughs at Mikah’s suggestion to add whipped cream to their sandwiches.
And Denz is right there, elbow-to-elbow with Braylon as he teaches Mikah The Flip. The air’s thick with melted cheese and smoky bacon. Underneath, a quiet layer of orange and cardamom that Denz can’t seem to hate anymore.
Braylon holds the spatula out to him. “Your turn.”
“Me?”
“You forced me to lie to my boss about being sick so we could—”
“‘Forced’ is a strong word.”
“Uncle Denzie, lying’s bad!” Mikah shouts.
“I didn’t—” Denz huffs, glaring at Braylon. He turns to Mikah. “I told him to pretend .”
“Momma says that’s lying.”
“Yeah, well,” Denz mumbles, “Momma’s good at that, so…”
“Denz,” Braylon says, admonishing, still holding up the spatula. “You’re quite capable of doing The Flip.”
Denz eyes the pan, then Braylon. “I haven’t—” He swallows. “Not since… with you. I’m gonna mess it up.”
He hates how pathetic he sounds.
But Braylon doesn’t approach him like a sad, broken Muppet with some seriously unresolved hang-ups. Instead, he presses his chest to Denz’s spine. He guides the spatula into his hand. Hooking his chin over Denz’s shoulder, he says, “Can’t hurt to give it another go, can it?”
Is Braylon talking about the grilled cheese or something else?
Mikah’s “You can do it, Uncle Denzie!” stops him from asking.
Braylon’s breaths sync with his. Denz remembers watching him do this dozens of times and, honestly, it’s a fucking grilled cheese. If he can’t do this, how the hell will he run a Forbes -ranked company?
“Just a sandwich,” he whispers.
Braylon hums his agreement against Denz’s temple. It’s enough for him to angle the spatula, jam the blade under the bread, and—
Flip his sandwich onto the hardwood floor.
“Motherfu—”
Mikah’s wild giggling and Braylon’s low, deep laugh cut Denz off. For a brief second, he forgets about the greasy, splattered cheese at his bare feet. Or how he once again failed at the simplest task.
Denz steps back to let Mikah help Braylon clean up the mess. They share crinkle-eyed smiles while building a new sandwich. Warmth radiates on each side of him as they cook together.
On the living room floor, Mikah crammed between them, Braylon cues up the movie. Denz passes out the juice pouches. Maple syrup drips down Mikah’s chin after his first bite. They leave the lights off. Only the bluish glow of the TV fills the apartment.
For an hour and forty-two minutes, Denz is out of his own head. He laughs with Mikah. Gets tangled in the way the art and music and emotion fuse with his bones. At his periphery, blurred but somehow still so crisp, Braylon grins.
When the end credits roll, Mikah’s knocked out, drooling on Denz’s chest.
After Kami, looking flushed and happy, picks him up, Denz washes the dishes while Braylon dries.
“I can’t believe you don’t have a kettle.”
“We’re not tea drinkers,” Denz says, hip propped against the kitchen island.
“How uncivilized.” Braylon dodges the wet sponge chucked at him. “What about when you’re sick? Can’t sleep?”
Denz runs a dry cloth across the spotless counters.
He doesn’t want to talk about how he wakes up with a gasp, a corkscrew in his chest. His constant thoughts about what the aunties said the other day.
About losing everything because he’s not enough.
The restless turning in bed. Echoes of one of them better step it up haunting him until his alarm goes off.
He doesn’t want to ruin the moment.
“I don’t have any trouble sleeping.”
“Just ’cause you’re great at lying to everyone else,” Braylon says, “doesn’t mean it works on me.”
“I’ve got it under control.”
Braylon eyes him for a beat. Denz doesn’t flinch. He means it. He’ll figure things out. But he won’t solve anything right now, especially not when Braylon peels his gray T-shirt away from his stomach, giving Denz a glimpse of his abdomen as he dabs at a maroon stain.
“How does opening one juice pouch make such a mess?”
Denz laughs. “Talk to Jamie about that.”
“I should get this in the wash.”
Braylon reaches for his phone and keys, and Denz shouts, “You can wash it here!” before he realizes what he’s doing.
Braylon pauses, one eyebrow flexed.
Denz manages to lower his voice to a reasonable volume when he says, “It’s a long drive home. The stain might set. All that cranberry concentrate in those juices. I have a… machine.”
He waves a hand in the general direction of the laundry space.
The hem of Braylon’s shirt is still gripped by one hand, exposing more skin. God bless a lifetime of swimming.
Uncertain, Braylon says, “You want me to take off my shirt so you can wash it… now?”
Denz thinks he nods. His brain’s a little distracted by other body parts.
“And there’s no other reason you want me to take my top off?”
“No?” Denz swallows so hard, his ears pop.
A taunting smile pulls at Braylon’s mouth. He shrugs, then peels his shirt off in the most painfully slow way possible. He tosses the shirt at Denz.
“Well, what now?”
Well, first, Denz needs to remember how words work.
Second, he wants to thank whoever designed this apartment, because the kitchen lighting against Braylon’s smooth, honey-brown skin is Sistine Chapel worthy.
Third, he should have a conversation with his erection, the one he hides behind Braylon’s balled-up shirt.
“Thing is,” he says. “I thought, like—”
In four steps, Braylon crosses to him. He grips the counter behind Denz, caging him in. His gaze drags from Denz’s eyes to his mouth and back up.
“For someone who’s so confident,” he says in a deep, goading voice that leaves goose bumps across Denz’s forearms, “so poised, so charming—” His tongue flicks over his lips. “—in front of a crowd, you’re quite… tentative when it’s just us.”
“I’m not…” Denz struggles to remember what he wants to say. “That word.”
Braylon dips his head. “Then tell me what you want.”
Denz takes a beat to make sure he won’t black out.
“What I want—” He drops the shirt. His hands move to Braylon’s waist. “—is to give you a tour of my place.”
He pops open the button of Braylon’s jeans. Yanks at the zipper.
“Starting with my bedroom.”
Braylon doesn’t look away.
“I want—” Denz wiggles the denim down. Braylon’s boxers are next. “—to show you my bed.”
His fingers creep over the coarse hair on Braylon’s belly. He watches him shiver. The tremble of his lower lip. He spits into one hand, gripping Braylon’s dick with intent, with a need searing through his bones.
“I want,” he continues, “to tie your hands above your head with your stupid gray shirt.”
He strokes. Soft and loose, at first. Then, measured and firm.
“Spread your legs.”
Braylon’s forehead glows with sweat. His dark eyes are unfocused. Denz can map out every vein in Braylon’s biceps as he struggles to hold on to the counter.
“I want to swallow you like you did me. Want your toes to curl. Want my name on your tongue.”
Braylon inhales sharply, his cock throbbing in Denz’s palm.
Denz leans up on his toes. “I owe you,” he whispers against parted lips. “I owe you big.”