I don’t know how I’m still in this chair and not in his lap, or under the table, or doing something deeply unholy with the little cup of nacho cheese.
Benji is amazing. Stupid-level amazing. I want to lick him. I want to rub my cheek against his chest and purr like I’ve emotionally imprinted on him like a baby duck in crisis.
Which. I might be.
This was supposed to be lunch. A casual little “haha let’s eat something solid after swimming so I don’t pass out in the parking lot.” But it’s been six hours and we’re on our second round of drinks and a full-ass pizza has shown up like a blessing from the carby gods.
My half is chaos in topping form: sausage, pineapple, hot peppers, and a sprinkle of regret. His is equally psychotic: banana peppers, sundried tomatoes, and pepperoni. He ordered it with the calm confidence of a man who knows how to commit to a choice.
I respect that.
But then he does something I’ve never seen done before.
He picks up a slice. Cuts off a neat, pointy triangle, not the crust, and dips the cheesy end directly into the nacho cheese.
I gawk at him. “You just…” I say slowly, in awe, “double cheesed your cheese.”
He looks up, smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Try it?”
Try it? Was there any doubt I would?
I lean in. “Fuck yeah. I’m a mermaid now. We need the extra dairy.”
He nods, calm as sin. Because of course I’m a cheese-dependent mermaid. He’s already rewritten his worldview to accommodate that truth.
He holds the slice like it’s a holy offering, and I take the bite straight from his fork. It’s salty and gooey and unhinged and a little too hot, and I moan.
In the middle of a family-friendly sports bar, sounding like I just came in my pants over liquid cheese.
He goes pink. Just a little. But he doesn’t look away.
Just watches me chew like he’s studying a miracle.
I swallow, eyes wide. “Will you marry me?” I ask, dead serious.
He chuckles, soft and deep, and I feel it rumble in my spine. “We should at least get dessert first,” he says.
Coward.
But also? Valid.
We split a cookie skillet the size of a manhole cover, and by the time I’m borderline pornographing my spoon and he’s doing slow-mo spoon seduction like it’s foreplay, I’ve named our children and picked sweater colors.
When he offers to walk me to my car, I don’t say no.
The sun’s low, sky all pinky gold and soft edges, and I’m full of carbs and giddiness and completely deranged hope.
He walks close enough to brush my arm now and then. Big hands swinging loose.
We reach my car, and I turn to say goodbye, but the words get stuck somewhere behind my tongue and my stupid, betraying heart.
He looks down at me like I’m delicate. Like he’s afraid of pushing too fast or too far. Like he wants me, but only if I want him too.
And I do.
I nod before he even moves.
And then he kisses me.
