Page 34 of The Key Holder

I chuckled. “Nobody likes that word.”

“Moist moist moist.”

“Oh wow, after that, it’s definitely grown on me.”

It was Dylan’s turn to laugh.

“Your book make it?” I asked.

He glanced down at at. “It’s a little…wet”—he gave me a big goofy grin—“but it should be fine. What are you watching?” He sat at the other end of the couch.

“Something about Alexander the Great.”

“Oooh, the finest bisexual in history.”

“Are you a fan of Macedonians?”

Dylan shrugged. “If you’re asking what time period I’d want to live in other than now, it would definitely be with him or the Greeks. I think their morals align well with mine.”

“You have morals?” My remark got me a pillow in the face but I didn’t care.

“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.