When I turn to light the burner to heat up my pan, I realize Fallon hasn’t left at all. She’s standing at the fridge, refilling her water bottle and looking like a goddamn wet dream while doing it.
It’s fucking pathetic, but I steal a glance and let my eyes drink in every delicious inch of her. Fallon’s height is the only average thing about her. Her hair is golden blonde and her eyes are the lightest blue. Those pouty lips of hers are a rosy pink and I can’t help but wonder if her nipples are the same shade. Her tits are full and heavy, and my hands itch to feel their weight in my palms. Her waist narrows and her hips flair and the little bike shorts and sports bra she’s wearing give me the perfect view of her soft creamy skin.
Before I turn into a total creep, I realize the pan is starting to smoke so I move it to another burner to let it cool before placing my sandwich on it. There’s a satisfying sizzle, but no blaring smoke alarm, so that’s good. As of now, Mickey’s the only one of us who’s ever started a house fire, and I’d like to keep it that way.
A minute later, I flip the sandwich and turn the heat down a bit as I scrounge up some sides. It’s too hot for tomato soup, but there’s a container of cherry tomatoes in the back of the fridge, so I grab those. I snag the blueberry container too, because I'm an instigator by nature. It takes just a minute to plate my sandwich and when I slice it in half, the cheese is perfectly gooey. Maybe all I need to lift me out of my crappy mood is melted cheese?
I catch a glimpse of Fallon as I arrange the food on my plate, and it becomes clear that my sour attitude won’t be driven away by cheesy goodness. Nope. The half smile that graces Fallon’s lips chases away all my grumpiness.
What?I prompt, holding my hands out with my palmsfacing up as I shake them side to side. When it’s just the two of us, we sign without speaking. There’s no reason to talk out loud if no one else is in the room.
Fallon’s eyes go wide and it’s obvious she thought I didn’t catch her looking at me.It’sfun to watch you cook, she admits.You stay quiet, but you look like one of those chefs on TV with all your fancy knife skills.
I laugh because there is nothing fancy or professional about the way I cook. I am pretty comfortable in front of a camera, although I highly doubt Fallon knows about my side hustle. Without second-guessing myself, I reach for another plate and place the other half of my sandwich on it.You hungry? I ask.
Her cheeks bloom as she looks down at the bowl next to her phone.I’m good.
I peer across the counter and roll my eyes before setting the plate in front of her.Pretzels are a snack, not a lunch food, I sign.And I make a damn fine grilled cheese, so enjoy it.
I’m not taking your lunch, she protests, but the words have little effect because the plate stays right in front of her.
I can make more, I tell her, signing the words then gesturing to the ingredients that are still spread out on the counter.
Thank you, she signs, gifting me a small smile.And thank you for breakfast the other morning. You didn’t have to do that.
I wave her off, though I’m secretly loving the fact that she liked the breakfast I made for her. It wasn’t much. Any kid in elementary school can toast frozen waffles, but I thought the warm syrup was a nice touch. And I had to watch three tutorials to make that paper flower. I’m about to tell her it was nothing, but the word dies in my mouth and my hands stay still as I watch her take a bite of grilled cheese. The moan that escapes her lips is fucking X-rated,so I take a bite of my own sandwich as a much-needed distraction.
This is so good, she signs before twirling a stray string of cheese around her finger before popping it into her mouth and sucking it off.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
I’ll never eat this lunch again without getting a boner. Thank god there’s a counter separating us, so I can still cling to the illusion that I’m a totally normal guy and not a sex-crazed maniac. Is there a word for people who get turned on by food? Probably, but that’s not exactly what’s happening here. It’s not the food that’s getting me hot and bothered. It’s Fallon’s enjoyment of the food.
How weird would it be if I grabbed my plate, held a bag of chips in front of my crotch, and raced upstairs.
Not weird at all, right?
I’m tempted to bolt, but then she starts moving her hands again, and I’m not so much of an asshole that I’m going to walk away mid-conversation.
Where did you learn to cook?she asks.
I don’t think grilled cheese qualifies as cooking,I answer honestly. But I learned most of what I know by watching videos on QuikTok. I wasn’t even trying to learn how to make meals, but that’s the power of doom-scrolling, I guess. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I can get by.
You’re a lot better than I am,she signs.
It doesn’t take a skilled chef to beat a bowl of pretzels, I retort.
Don’t get bitchy now, she scolds.You were finally coming out of your bad mood. Don’t slide back into it.
You’re not the boss of me, I say, settling right back into my grumpy self as I take a bite of my sandwich.
Stop,she signs.We already have a roommate who’s a grumpy asshole. There’s no room for another one.
There’s a cap on assholish behavior in this house? I sign back, my eyebrow raised. Part of me is a little offended she’s comparing me to Dutton Fucking Wagner, but part of me hopes she keeps going because I like sparring with her.
There should be, she responds.What has you in such a bad mood lately? You’re the fun one, or have you forgotten?
It stings more than I want to admit that Fallon sees me that way. I know it’s not an insult. It’s just so one-dimensional. I’d like to think there’s more to me than the loud, friendly guy who likes to party, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the way everyone perceives me is the way I really am.
