Chapter 20 #2
We do the dishes together, the three of us moving around the kitchen like we've been doing this for years. Blake washes, I dry, Reid puts things away — when he's not stealing bites of leftover food or "supervising" by leaning against the counter and commentating on our technique.
"You missed a spot," he tells Blake, pointing at a perfectly clean pan.
"I will drown you in this sink."
"Kinky."
I snort, and Blake shoots me a look that's half-exasperated, half-amused. "You see what I deal with?"
"I'm starting to."
When Blake hands me a clean plate, our fingers brush briefly. His hands are rough, calloused from years of working with wood. For just a second, his eyes meet mine. For a man who's so bottled up, those eyes are expressive.
Then Reid hip-checks me on his way to the cabinet, and the moment passes.
"Tomorrow we should pick out tile for the shower," Reid says, drying his hands on a towel. "Something classic that won't look dated in ten years."
"Subway tile," Blake and I say at the same time, then look at each other and smile.
"Great minds," I tell him.
"Or too many home improvement shows," he replies, but he's still smiling.
"Subway tile it is," Reid declares. "See how easy that was? We make a good team."
Yeah. We kind of do. Something changed today, and I'm here for it.
After the kitchen is clean, we migrate to the living room. Reid immediately pulls me down beside him on the couch, arranging us so I'm tucked against his side with his arm around my shoulders and my legs draped over his lap. His hand settles on my knee, thumb tracing idle patterns.
Blake settles in the armchair with a beer, looking more relaxed than I've ever seen him. He's slouched low, legs stretched out, the tension that usually lives in his shoulders finally eased.
"What should we watch?" Reid asks, scrolling through streaming options with his free hand.
"Nothing that requires thinking," I mumble against his shoulder. "My brain is tired."
"Cooking show?" Reid suggests. "Mindless but entertaining."
"Perfect."
His hand squeezes my knee, and I press closer into his warmth.
We end up watching some baking competition where chefs have to make fancy desserts, making fun of how little time they get and how snobby the judges sound. Blake knows way more about baking than I expected, while Reid just likes making jokes about the over-the-top music.
"How do you seem to know so much about baking?" I ask Blake. "I thought you didn't cook except for your three favorite meals?"
Blake slouches lower in his chair, eyes sleepy. "I like noise when I fall asleep. I think I absorbed it all subconsciously."
"Really? You seem to know a little more than that."
Blake's mouth tightens. "Okay. So maybe I experiment a little."
Reid sits forward so fast I nearly slide off his shoulder. "Sorry, love," he says, tugging me back against him without looking away from Blake. "What do you mean you experiment a little? I never see you baking. I didn't even know we have baking sheets. Or flour. Or that stuff that makes it rise."
"Baking powder," Blake and I say at the same time.
Reid's mouth drops open. He points at Blake, then at me, then back at Blake. "Are you baking shit in here when I'm not home? Are you eating it all? You son of a bitch!"
"Relax," Blake mutters, hiding his grin behind his beer bottle. "I said I'm experimenting. I haven't actually managed to make anything edible. Baking's fucking hard."
Reid seems to settle at that. "If you do make something even halfway good, I get some too, right?" He glares at Blake and points a finger. "Right?"
"Fuck. Fine. If it's any good, I promise I'll share. Now shut the fuck up and watch the show."
I could get used to this. Maybe I can claim this cushion. Stitch a little plaque on it that says Laine's Spot.
When the episode ends, I don't want to leave. Don't want to break whatever this is by going back to my own place.
"I should probably head home," I say reluctantly.
"Stay," Reid says immediately. "It's late, and you're tired."
"I don't have clothes for tomorrow."
"You can borrow something of mine," Reid offers. "Come on, stay."
I look at Blake, suddenly aware that this is his space too. But he just nods.
"Stay," he echoes quietly. "Not a good idea to drive when you're tired."
Reid kisses my temple, lingering there for a moment, his breath warm against my skin. "Stay," he murmurs. "I'll just end up worrying if you drive home this late."
"Okay," I say. "I'll stay."
From the corner of my eye, I catch Blake watching us. There's something in his expression — not discomfort exactly, but not quite comfortable either. Something I can't name that disappears the moment he realizes I'm looking.
He turns away to collect our empty beer bottles, and I tell myself I imagined it.
Later, as I'm getting ready for bed in Reid's room, I can hear him and Blake talking quietly in the hallway. I can't make out words, just the rhythm of it. Reid's laugh, low and genuine. Blake's voice, rougher but fond.
Reid slips into the room a few minutes later, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it toward the hamper. He misses, doesn't bother to pick it up, just crawls into bed beside me and pulls me against his chest.
"Good day," he murmurs against my hair.
"Really good day."
His arms tighten around me. "Told you Blake would come around."
"You did."
"I'm very smart."
"Mmhmm."
"And humble."
I laugh softly, pressing closer. Outside, I hear Blake's footsteps heading away, toward his workshop.
They sound lonely.