“I’m fine,” he says, and he almost sounds convincing.
“Go sit down, I’ll make tea,” I tell him.
“Bird, it’s —"
“Please don’t make me throw you over my shoulder.”
Finally, that gets a real smile, one with light behind his blue eyes.
“I’d kind of like to see that,” he says, his hands on my wrists.
“I’d probably throw my back out, which is why you should go sit on your couch of your own volition,” I say.
He leans forward, gives me a quick kiss on the lips.
“Fine,” he says, and pads out of the kitchen.
I open the cabinet that does have tea and pull down a box of chamomile. It’s pretty easy to find because Seth has one of the most ruthlessly organized kitchens I’ve ever seen, and I spent years living with Vera.
I’ve just put the kettle on the stove when I hear the soft creak of his stairs, and I stick my head out of the kitchen.
“That’s not sitting,” I tell him. He pauses, halfway up the stairs, and leans on the railing.
“I’m slipping into something more comfortable,” he says. “Does that meet with your approval?”
Please be sweatpants. Please be sweatpants.
I think I blush, and I hope he doesn’t know why.
“Fine,” I tease. “But that ass better be on that sofa by the time this is done.”
“Or what?” he calls, resuming his climb.
“Or you know what!” I shout.
Back in the kitchen, I look at the box of tea on the counter. I look at the kettle on the stove. I make a face.
Then I check Seth’s fridge and pantry for ingredients, find what I’m looking for, and scrap the game plan. I’ve just put the new concoction on to heat up when he comes back down the stairs, and I poke my head out.
“Have I dressed quickly enough for your satisfaction?” he asks when he reaches the bottom. “I bet I’ve still got time for another costume change.”
Seth’s wearing a v-neck white undershirt and red-and-black plaid pajama pants, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed. They’re still a thin, pliable fabric, and it doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination to see his dick, but the pattern and the non-stretchy fabric hide it about thirty percent better than sweatpants.
“I approve,” I say, making an effort to look him in the face.
“Thank God,” he deadpans, and holds out a small stack of clothes. “Here, I grabbed these for you. I think that’s the smallest stuff I’ve got.”
Right. I can’t sleep in the dress and tights I wore to my parents’ house, and they’re not the comfiest for hanging out in, either.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and he sits on his sofa, then gives me the thumbs up.
I check on our still-warming drinks, then change in the bathroom. There’s a moment of horror where I wonder if some other woman or women left these here and now I have to wear them, but as soon as I get them on I’m pretty sure they’re his.
It’s a black t-shirt with the old Loveless Brewing logo on the back and a pair of gray sweatpants that I have to roll the waistband on about ten times. As I do, I wonder if he’s mocking me. He can’t read my mind, right? My perverted thoughts are solely my own, right?
Just before I leave the bathroom, I hesitate for a moment and consider my outfit.
Then I take off my bra, because if I have to behave myself around Seth’s dickprint, he can deal with my nipples.
When I head into the living room with the mugs, Seth is sitting on the sofa, one arm splayed across the back, mindlessly scrolling on his phone. His hair’s messy and when he looks up at me there’s something in the way he looks, something in the way he tosses his phone onto his coffee table, that makes him look so… young.
Something vulnerable, sweet, innocent. Right now he looks exactly like the boy I fell for all those years ago.
“Thanks,” he says, as I put the hot mugs down on the coffee table, then sit next to him.
Then, when he reaches out to grab a mug, he pauses, his hand around the handle. Stares into it like he can read a fortune in the fancy dash of cinnamon I sprinkled across the top, and then looks over at me with the strangest look on his face.
“What?” I ask, leaning over and staring into his mug of hot cocoa. “Are you allergic to something? You don’t hate chocolate, do you?”
“No, no,” he says, and finally picks it up. He doesn’t stop giving me the weird look. “I just -- did I ever… tell you this?”
I look from Seth’s face to the mug and back again. Neither gives me any hint about what this is.
“Tell me what?” I ask.
“That my dad used to make us cocoa when the power would go out,” he says. “I really never told you? Not even before?”