"You're thinking too hard," Evan said. "I can practically hear the gears turning from here."
"Processing."
"Processing what?"
"This," I said simply. "All of it."
"Good this or bad this?"
"Good this." I reached out for his hand, where it rested on the table. "Really fucking good this."
Chapter twenty-four
Evan
My hamstrings were still singing from Coach's suicide drills when I pushed through the apartment door, gear bag heavy on my shoulder. I dropped the bag with a satisfying thud and headed straight for the kitchen, remembering what lived in the fridge.
Leftover stir-fry. Half a container of Greek yogurt. The emergency protein bars I kept for when Jake inevitably ate everything else and looked at me with those ridiculous puppy-dog eyes.
The fridge door hung open by about three inches.
Not unusual—Jake treated appliance instructions like suggestions rather than functional requirements. As I reached to close it properly, something caught my eye—yellow squares. Dozens of them were stuck to every available surface like some organizational explosion had happened while I was gone.
I pulled the door open wider.
What the hell.
Jake had labeled everything. I mean everything. The milk carton wore a crooked sticky note that read "Calcium DeliverySystem - Handle With Care." The leftover Chinese takeout had been christened "Questionable Life Choices - Day 3." Even the condiment shelf had acquired a sign: "Fancy Sauce Collection - No Ketchup Allowed."
Each label was written in Jake's distinctively disastrous handwriting—letters tilted at impossible angles, some words squeezed together when he'd run out of room, others spread wide. Someone gave a drunk kindergartener administrative duties.
The last label made my pulse pound.
There, stuck to a dented store-bought apple pie that hadn't been there before practice, were eight words in Jake's chaotic scrawl: "Carter's Boyfriend's Pie - Hands Off."
I stared at it.
Carter's Boyfriend's Pie.
Not "Jake's pie" or "roommate's pie," or even "don't touch or die."
Boyfriend's.
We were sleeping in the same bed and trading morning kisses that tasted like toothpaste. We'd fought for each other, chosen each other, built something real in the gaps between hockey practice and games.
He acted like I was that when he clocked the guy in Rockford, but we'd never said the word to each other.
"Organized in my signature style."
Jake's voice cut through my spiral. I turned to find him leaning against the counter, shirtless and still damp from what had to be the world's longest shower.
"This handwriting looks like you had a seizure while holding a pen."
"That's very hurtful, Spreadsheet. I prefer to think of it as rustic branding." He pushed off the counter and moved into my space, close enough for me to smell his soap and the faint traceof whatever product he used to make his hair defy the laws of physics. "It's very authentic and very artisanal."
"Very illegible."
"You read it fine."
