Page 113 of Emerson

Warren: Emerson

Warren: did you forget about dinner?

Warren: found Wanda. Why am I not surprised that she’s parked in Dillon’s driveway.

Warren: bro. Put the dicks away or we’re going to be late

Warren: you’ve got two minutes and then I’m coming in

Warren: one minute

Ian: I feel like I need to point out that this is the group chat….

Z: SHUT UP IAN. Omg you RUINED IT.

Jesse: LOL

Warren: coming in

I roll out of bed with a curse, snatching whatever articles of clothing I find first on the floor because he was not kidding. I can hear the front door open down the hall. If that wasn’t enough, though, Warren hollers.

“If I see anyone’s dick, you’re paying for my therapy.”

I huff, rolling the sweatpants up around my waist because they’re definitely not meant for people of my height.

“What if we were in the living room? Huh?” I call out, slipping into Dillon’s shirt. I look like a fucking toddler.

“Then I would be traumatized, you would be traumatized, and Dillon would be getting punched.”

My brother quirks a brow when I step out to the living room, but he looks amused more than anything.

“Time to go, Romeo.”

“I cannot,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder. “I will not go sit with my parents when I don’t even know if I can sit right now.”

He pulls a disgusted face. “Bro. Fucking gross.”

Dillon steps out of the bathroom at that moment. Boxer briefs on, rubbing a towel over his head. He isn’t the least bit self-conscious as he walks up behind me. “Sup, man.”

“Yo.” He fist bumps Dillon, giving him the required dude-bro up nod. “Let’s fuckin’ go, dudes. I’m starving.”

“Warren. I am not going to—”

“Give him ten to shower,” Dillon says, smirking at my outraged scoff. “Come on, baby. I wanna see how much you blush when I kiss you in front of your ma.”

Warren groans.

The answer is a lot.

I also blush when he boots Ian out of his usual seat next to me so he can sit there. I blush when he spoons food on my plate without seeming to think about it. I feel like I have the comprehension of a potato when he laughs at something my dad says and then jokes with my brothers, all with one hand on my thigh under the table.

He kisses my hair; he wipes the corner of my mouth with a smile. He butters my roll and fills my glass, and I think by the end of dinner, I’m going to pass out.

Dillon loves loud when you stop to hear it. His love is acts of service, of pampering. Of showing up. He whistles while he helps Ian wash dishes, he smirks at me across the room when Ma piles leftover containers in his arms.

And then we fall asleep in his bed that night, nose to nose. The cool breeze from the open window hitting my back. Love felt out of reach for me, not because I didn’t want it. Because I only wanted it with him.

Now I get to figure out how I can love him just as loudly.