8. Ford #2
“Just for that you have to make me your famous grilled cheese,” Dylan said. “It’s my favorite.”
“Oh really?”
Dylan grabbed another pillow—I braced myself, expecting another attack. But he pulled his knees up and crushed it against his chest instead. “Yup.”
“I can do that.” I pushed myself off the couch, and headed into the kitchen, passing Dylan on the way.
“Two please,” he added.
My famous grilled cheese was just buttered white bread with two slices of cheese per sandwich as opposed to one. Not a ground-breaking recipe but it was the extent of my cooking skills when I was in my twenties.
And a father.
Stepfather.
That was becoming a more important distinction lately.
I grabbed the butter and the cheese from the fridge.
“Might as well learn the big secret,” Dylan said, joining me by the counter.
“It’s not that big a secret,” I said, spreading the butter onto the first piece of bread.
“I’ll be the judge of its bigness .”
Fuck, when did we get this flirty?
This was flirting, wasn’t it?
I couldn’t tell anymore.
Dylan leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and watched what I was doing. I did not pay attention to the way his bicep flexed in that position.
The comfortable silence that followed was only interrupted by the sizzle of butter on the griddle, and the floppy sound the sandwiches made when I flipped them.
As the aroma of melting cheese and toasted bread filled the air, it made the small space that much cozier, especially with the rough weather outside.
Once the sandwiches were done, Dylan—who apparently had lost all concept of personal space—reached across the stove, pressing his body against mine, to grab his plate. The effect this had on my body wasn’t lost on me; it was impossible to ignore.
My desire to act on my attraction was now a steady hum until he did something like that, and then it was like an electric current to my cock. My brain shortcircuited, and I wanted to?—
“Thanks. I should’ve guessed it was extra cheese.”
“Do you want me to cut them?” I asked.
“Oh, sure.” He handed me his plate. Again, he watched my every movement. His fingers brushed mine when he took his plate back.
Every touch felt like less of an accident and more of a deliberate act, a test of my composure. I felt like I was constantly reminding myself to breathe, to keep my movements smooth, to not let my gaze linger too long. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore—just what I wanted to be.
But it didn’t matter. I was falling for my former stepson.
I followed him back to the living room. The rain was now a constant hammering against the roof and the windows. The wind didn’t know what it was doing; we were getting it from all sides.
“It almost sounds like we’re going to wash away,” Dylan said.
I grunted in agreement, trying my best to stifle any meteorological worries, as we took our previous seats on the couch. Dylan picked out an old—by his standards, not mine—action movie to watch. One of those mindless, explosion-filled revenge films that didn’t require too much thought.
Some time after I finished eating, I almost jumped out of my seat.
“Sorry. My feet are cold. Do you mind?” Dylan asked.
He had wiggled his feet between my lower back, dangerously close to my ass, and the couch cushions.
“S-sure. I mean, I don’t mind. Get comfy.”
Get comfy?
How about crawl into my lap and let’s make out?
The movie played on, but the cheesy one-liners and over-the-top stunts weren’t enough of a distraction from the tiny toes that seemed to squirm every few minutes. Surely he wasn’t doing it on purpose.
A quick glance showed me that he was engrossed in the movie. One hand dramatically positioned above his head, the other tucked under his chin. My gaze shifted down his body, lingering on details I shouldn’t notice.
He’d probably be warmer if he was wearing more clothing.
Fuck.
Why was I torturing myself?
Halfway through an elaborate car chase, the screen flickered and went dark, and the hum of the refrigerator died. A few seconds later, the ceiling fan blades came to a noiseless halt. The cabin was plunged into immediate silence, broken only by the relentless roar of the wind and rain outside.
"Well, that sucks," Dylan said, adding a soft chuckle.
“Yeah.”
Our voices sounded oddly loud in the sudden quiet. A flash of lightning lit up the room, revealing Dylan had moved. His feet were no longer tucked behind my body. He was alert, eyes wide, looking at the front window.
“Do you think it’s getting worse?” he asked.
I pulled out my phone to check the radar. “There aren’t any warnings,” I said. “Looks like just a bad thunderstorm.”
“Guess it’s an early night then,” he said, before pushing himself off the couch. “G’night.”
“Night, Dylan.”
I followed him, until the stairs where our paths split. The walk up to my bedroom felt longer than usual in the dark. I didn’t bother brushing my teeth since the well had no power. There was probably a reserve tank, but I could go one night without.
After today, I knew sleep wouldn't come easily.