Page 101 of What We Break
His eyes meet mine for just a second, warm, but guarded.
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 justa 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!"
