He snorts, shaking his head as I open the closet holding the washer and dryer. “My parents couldn’t wait for me to get out of their house. They’re both well known in our community, and naturally good at everything. It… takes me longer to figure things out, and I’m clumsy. I-I don’t mean to be, it just happens.”
The way he says it, like he feels the need to defend himself, makes me wonder how long people have been blaming him for things outside his control. My heart pinches at the sadness on his face, so sharp I rub at my chest. “I’ve never lived up to their expectations. Holidays are the only time I see them, and even then, it's tough.”
“Everyone learns different ways, and at different speeds. You just haven’t figured out what learning style works best for you.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Sure am.” The washer starts its cycle, and I turn back to him, careful with my wording. “I’ve been teaching for a decade, and the ‘challenge students’ are my favorites.” My fingers swoop in air quotes as I roll my eyes. “The system loves to assign labels, but most of the time? Those kids just need something explained to them in a different way. Let me take a wild guess… someone has always stood at the front of the classroom and told you how to do things?”
“Yeah,” he says with a timid, dismissive shrug. “Works for everyone else.”
“Fuck everyone else,” I say, and he glances at me, still unsure, as we walk into the kitchen. “Take me, for example. I could’ve read a hundred recipes on how to bake a cake and watched a dozen YouTube videos, but having someone beside me to show me? It makes the process a million times more likely to stick.”
“I can’t imagine you being bad at anything,” he teases, and I bump him with my shoulder.
“You haven’t heard me sing yet. Stick around long enough, and you’ll understand.”
He laughs again, the bright sound chasing away most of his earlier stress. “Where are your measuring cups?” Mild panic flares in my stomach before I remember the single glass Pyrex shoved in the back of the cabinet.
Shamefully, it was last used for hot chocolate, but I keep that bit of truth to myself.
“Mixing bowl?” he asks, and I bite my lip as I pull out the only large container I own—a plastic red and white striped one shaped like a circus popcorn bag. Az flashes me alookas we dump the dry ingredients inside. “You are such a bachelor. Please, tell me you at least have a whisk?”
“Pfft, of course I do,” I claim, as I wonder if that’s true. Scrambled eggs for one person don’t take more than a few whips of a fork. “It’s just… right here… right…” I trail off as I search through the utensil drawer, mumbling a prayer as I dig past the potato masher that still has a tag attached. “Here!” I hold up the metal whisk, waving it around in victory.
“Oh, I am so,soproud,” he says, clutching his heart, and I chuckle as I give him a light shove. Az makes himself at home in my kitchen, rummaging through my drawers before opening the refrigerator and frowning. “No eggs?”
“Of course I have eggs!” He raises a suspicious brow as I open the back door, gesturing for him to follow.
A white hen clucks her hello as we step into the sun. “Henrietta, he thinks we don’t have eggs.” She bobs away, completely uninterested once she realizes there’s no food in my hands. The side of the coop lifts to display a row of nests, pink and green eggs scattered among them. Az is delighted, smiling like a fiend as the chickens dart around the yard, clawing the dirt and searching for bugs.
Back inside, we mix the ingredients and pour them into the cake pans. Azrael’s initial shyness is slowly easing, and it turns out he has a fierce playful side. He’s goofy and sweet, he just struggles with the self-confidence to express himself. The more he loosens up, the more he teases me, and even manages to laugh at himself when he stumbles and almost drops one of the pans. An embarrassed hue still rises on his cheeks, but he doesn’t clam up like he did before.
The washing machine dings, and he swaps his clothes to the dryer while I set the timer for the oven. It’s all very domestic and comfortable, which surprises me. When I’ve dated in the past, I've struggled with the intimacy of having someone else invade my space, but I find I enjoy seeing Az in my home.
“I’m, uh, going to run to the restroom,” he calls from across the room before disappearing behind the door.
My mind wanders as I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. Friends and family have been encouraging me to be more social for years, but I’ve always been content with my own company.
Something about Az is different, though.
When I saw the awful way that woman was treating him, my protective instincts flared like they haven’t in a long time… maybe ever. The need to defend him was a knee to my gut, an instinct I couldn’t ignore.
It’s not like he couldn’t handle it himself physically. Compared to me, he’s not a very big guy, but he’s of averageheight. His lack of confidence is what gets in his way. It shrinks his presence.
Now that he’s comfortable and letting loose? That presence takes up every inch of this house, and I find I like that, too.
He isn't exactly hard on the eyes. Objectively speaking, he’s a handsome man, and it's no chore for me to watch him as he works.
The beautiful almond tone of his skin that somehow becomes even more delicious when that flush hits his cheeks. Those corkscrew curls that dance around his head, hints of golden highlights shimmering when the light hits them just right.
And then there are those sad gray eyes. They stir my inner caretaker's desire to make him happy again, because when he smiles? They're like the sun breaking through the clouds after a long rainy day.
The ding of the timer makes me frown as I realize how long he’s been gone. Heat from the oven washes over me as I slide my mitts on and remove the three pans, wondering if it would be overstepping to check on him.
The bathroom door flings open, and Az comes out, flushed andflustered.
“Um… are you—”
