Twenty
Gavin
Things run late at the Fifth Street project, and then I have to stop in at work and take care of a few tasks our summer employees
aren’t trained on. Mia hasn’t answered my texts about what she wanted for dinner, so I figure she’s caught up in her writing.
I tell myself all is well between us, even though we haven’t really talked through things. By the time I make it back to the
house, it’s late evening.
Not sure what sort of food she’d be craving, I bring home burritos and a giant salad for us to share. But when I walk through
the door, the house is dark and quiet. I lean back out and yep, her car is parked on the street. Still here, then.
I set the food on the counter and check the living room. Mia is perched on the arm of the couch, laptop on her knees, face
lit by the screen’s glow. For a moment I watch her, fingers flying over the keyboard like a honeybee in the garden, then stopping,
hovering, a hummingbird in mid-flight. Her brows are furrowed, lip caught between her teeth. I don’t know what I look like
when I work, but Mia is poetry.
A quiet meow draws me away and I chuckle at a tawny paw swiping under the laundry room door.
Cedar, we named him, on the way home from the pet store.
Mia says picking names exhausts her and let me do it, then declared it perfection that I named them all after trees.
I’m trying not to play favorites, but Cedar’s playful personality already has a hold on me.
I take care of the cats quietly, not wanting to disturb Mia.
Soon we’ll give them free roam of the house, but not before making sure everything is kitten-proofed.
Once they’ve been tended to, I head back to the kitchen, torn between leaving Mia in peace and offering dinner. If there’s
one thing I can be sure of, it’s that she loves writing snacks. I once listened to a podcast where the interviewer asked her
if she ever snacked while she wrote, and Mia laughed and listed about fifteen different foods. It was no surprise to me because
I’ve been supplying her midnight snacks since junior year of college.
But the takeout I’ve brought home won’t be easy to eat while she’s typing, so I pop the salad in the fridge and raid the pantry
and fridge to make a plate for her. Salty kettle-cooked potato chips, cheese curds we picked up at the farmers market—Mia
had never tasted one till she visited Wisconsin with me, and now she’s hooked—raspberries from the bushes I planted last year,
then a few more when I can’t resist popping some in my mouth. A homemade chocolate chip cookie from the tin Faye sent home
with me earlier this week.
Figuring I have all the bases covered—salty, sweet, cheese—I take the plate to the living room, where Mia is sitting, her
back propped up against the wall. My plan is to leave the food and go, counting on her absorption in her writing, but the
scene must not have been working, because she looks up the moment I enter the room.
I hold up the plate as reason for interrupting her, suddenly unsure of myself despite this being my own home.
“Did you just get back?” Her gaze lands on the plate. “Sorry, I planned to text to see if you wanted me to order food, but...”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re in the zone.”
“Did you cook for me?”
“I assembled some food.” I glance down at the mishmash. “Does that count?”
“You’re talking to the woman who once ate nothing but frozen dinners and raisins for a week while on deadline.”
I make a face, coming to sit on the couch cushion next to her. “You never told me about the raisins.”
“Some things are too shameful to share.” She plucks a raspberry off the plate, the fruit dainty in her fingers. I allow my
eyes to linger on her as she savors the tart berry.
“You’re never embarrassing.”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Even when I’m eating handfuls of raisins at two a.m. in the glow of my laptop screen like
a gremlin?”
I laugh at the image. “Okay, maybe then.”
She digs her toes into my hip. “Meanie.”
I press a kiss onto her knee, without thinking. Her skin is smooth and cool under my lips, and I raise my eyes to hers, half
afraid I’ve overstepped, consumed with thoughts of where I want to kiss her next. Her eyes are wide, but she doesn’t pull
away. I do, but not far, my lips a whisper away from the rounded curve of her knee. My fingers skate up her calf, and her
eyes drop, watching me touch her. The glow from her laptop shows her lips plump and parted, and I sink my teeth into my bottom
lip.
So beautiful. I’ve always known Mia was gorgeous, but I never allowed myself to dwell on her allure, to let my gaze roam,
drinking in her sexiness.
“Gavin,” she says, and I stop. Let go, but when I meet her eyes, she’s smiling. “Did you come in here to feed me or seduce
me?”
“Is there a difference?”
She laughs. Setting her laptop aside, she scoots down to sit in the crevasse of the couch, all curled up, and brings the plate of food to her bent knees. She bites into a potato chip, then catches me looking. “What?” A small shower of crumbs falls from her lips, and I grin.
“Just thinking how lucky I am to come home to you.” It’s bliss to have her tucked against me in the twilight.
She stops chewing. Swallows. “It’s not weird to have me here?”
“Does it seem weird?” I hope desperately that the answer is no.
She licks a crumb from her lips, watching me with her dark eyes. “It seems perfect.”
Happiness pulses through me at her declaration. Honest and open, just like the friend I’ve come to love. The lover I didn’t
dare hope for. Channeling my willpower not to pull her into my arms, plate of food be damned, I ask, “Are you finished eating?”
She tugs the dish closer to her, protective. “Why?”
“Because I’d really like to kiss you again.”
“Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“Because food is always your top priority.”
“Only because kissing you has never been an option.” Before I can register the implications of her confession, she swipes
her thumb at the corner of her mouth, catching a crumb and licking it off with a quick swipe of her tongue.
Rising, she sets the plate on the side table and moves over me, one knee on either side of my thighs, caging me in. The corners
of her mouth lift in a coy smile. “Kissing you is an option, right?”
She’s teasing me now, hovering over my lap, hands on my shoulders, her face inches from mine. We’ve joked around for years,
but this kind of teasing is new.
“Kissing is one option, yeah.” My voice is a rasp.
Her lips lift, curving in the moonlight.
She’s enjoying this as much as I am, the years of banter slipping to something deeper, edgier.
Then she kisses me, and the tether holding back my emotions snaps with sweet relief.
It’s only been mere hours since we kissed, but already I’m starved for her.
Mouths parted, both greedy, we give ourselves up to each other, to this very new and welcome twist in our relationship.
Kissing Mia is all the joy of spending time with her, heightened. Pleasure magnified. It’s dizzying, the way her tongue swoops
against mine.
“Gavin,” she breathes. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Holding out for her, more like. All my past relationships pale in comparison to this. But I don’t voice the thought. Don’t want to give too
much away, even though I can’t deny I’d give her everything, if only she asked. Instead, I press kisses to her lips, her neck,
the soft notch of skin at her throat. Friendship is the last thing on my mind.