He sighed. “Stop thinking that you have to somehow repay me. It’s yourbirthday. People get presents on their birthdays.”
“It’s not the presents,” I said, although that was only half true. I wasn’t worried about paying him back for them, but it was what had made me think about everythingelseI owed him.
“Then what?”
I shrugged. “Everything else.”
He let out a dissatisfied noise. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“You fed me?—”
“You bought some of those groceries and did a lot of the cooking.”
“You housed me?—”
“And you helped me with a lot of projects that I couldn’t have done myself.”
“You bought me hiking boots?—”
“To replace the ones I barfed all over!”
I gave him a look that I hoped conveyed that I wasn’t buying his excuses.
“Seth,” he said seriously. “You don’t owe me anything. Not now, not ever. I want to do things for you because Ilikeyou. I’m not doing itforanything.”
“I know, but?—”
“But nothing,” he retorted. “Do you expect me to give you anything for everything you’ve done for me?”
I blinked, startled. “But I haven’t done anything,” I objected.
He raised both eyebrows. “You’re here,” he said simply. “To keep me safe. To help me deal with Dad’s death. You think those aren’t worth anything?”
“I mean, no, of course not.”
“Well, then,” he said matter-of-factly, as though that settled everything. “We’re even.”
I gave in. “Fine.”
He leaned toward me. “So you don’t have to kiss me, if you don’t want to.”
“And if I do want to?”
“Then,” he said, getting even closer. “You definitely should.”
I took him up on his invitation, sliding fingers around the back of his neck to pull him the few remaining inches until I could claim his mouth with mine, run my tongue along the seam of his lips, and feel him melt into me, his mouth spiced like curry.
I pulled him off the stool so that he stood between my knees, the height of the seat putting me taller than I usually was so that he had to tilt his head back to keep kissing me. I held his face at the jaw, my fingers brushing over the scars on his neck, his hands sliding up my forearms. He gripped my arms, then stepped away, pulling me with him.
I let myself be tugged from the stool and out of the kitchen, but I didn’t let him away from the kiss, not that he was trying to escape. But kissing makes for difficult walking, especially backwards, and we were forced apart, laughing, when he stumbled into the wall.
“Come on.” He took my hand and pulled me into the bedroom, where he’d already turned back the covers. There was a bouquet of roses on the nightstand on the far side of the room.
“Jesus, Elliot,” I breathed.
“I’d have set up candles everywhere, but I thought if you were hungry, I might accidentally burn the house down.” His tone was light.
“Burning the house down bad,” I told him, pushing him down to sit on the exposed sheets.
