He was coming. He was coming. He was coming!

After more than a month, and two date changes, he was finally, for sure, coming. Already on the plane, heading to Atlanta, coming. I wasn’t crazy about having to share him with Dallas, but I would take him anyway I could get him. I hadn’t seen him in over a month and I missed him like crazy. I just wanted to see him, to feel those arms around me, to lay my head against his chest and listen to his heart beat. The day dragged by unbelievably slowly. By 3:00 I’d had it and told my boss I was checking out early.

The plan was that he would spend most of the day Friday with Dallas, get music out of the way first, and then I could have him to myself. The last thing I wanted to be was needy, or a pest, so I tried hard not to bother him and I avoided texting or calling him. I wanted to be that cool chick that he knew that didn’t ride him about spending time with her. Besides, I wanted him to have all of the studio time he needed because once I got him, I had no intention of letting him go.

But by 7:00, and with no word from him, I was restless. I’d already cleaned, and cleaned again, washed the car, showered and changed, organized a few cabinets, cooked dinner. I wanted to scream—he was in the same state and the same city and I hadn’t seen him yet! In a fit, I picked up the phone and typed out a quick message to him. “How much longer?’  He didn’t answer for a long while, but when he did, the message was good. ‘Come get me.’

I followed Dallas’ convoluted instructions to his home in South Atlanta, where he and JC often worked. I got lost twice, missed the gate entrance and had to back up, and then couldn’t get anyone to answer the buzz when I did find the gate. By the time I made it down the winding driveway toward the massive, specially built, circular home, I was too tired and frazzled to be nervous about meeting one of the city’s, if not the country’s most talented record producers. Dallas was a hit maker, and the fan in me was happy that JC was there working with him.

If, by working, you meant playing Xbox Live on the 52 inch plasma television that hung on the wall. A teenage young man had opened the door to let me in and led me to the playroom where JC was flanked by two other boys cheering him on. I recognized Dallas, in the corner, his long legs hung over the side of a leather recliner, a long finger pointing toward the screen, shouting as loud as the boys were. I caught his attention as I walked in and he swung his legs off of the side of the chair and stood.

“Boys, there’s a lady here,” he said quietly. Somehow he was heard, over the din, and the two younger boys stood and nodded, muttered ‘hello’. JC turned around, then, a black scarf still wrapped around his neck, and flashed that megawatt smile. I could have melted into a puddle right there, had it not been for the others in the room. I resisted the urge to vault over the back of the couch and attack him. Instead I smiled and said ‘hello’, and the boys went back to their game. Dallas came around the chair he’d been lounging in.

“You must be Serena,” he said, his voice smooth as milk chocolate, his wide smile very sweet. He held out a large hand, palm up. I took his hand, his closing over mine, squeezing lightly, and drawing an arm around my shoulder.

“Dallas,” I said, swooning. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, really. I’m a big fan.”

“Well, thank you, thank you,” he said, beaming. He turned to JC, an arm still around me. “So, C, your girl got good taste. You don’t mind if we spend some time together, right?”

“Dallas,” JC said, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him. “Don’t make me hurt you.” The boys giggled and fell back against the couch, controllers in hand. I blushed as Dallas let out a hearty laugh, released my hand and guided me to the couch next to JC.

“Move over, Tron. Let the lady sit down here, next to her dude. Can I get you something? A drink, water, a soda, something?”

I sank into the comfortable couch next to JC. I could smell him when I walked into the room, and my mouth went dry. “Water,” I eeked out. “Thank you.”

“Hey sweet girl,” JC said, leaning close to me, dropping a kiss on my cheek. He looked tired, but amazing. I couldn’t wait to get him home, but for the time being, I needed to be social and polite, until I could steal him away. I grinned and returned his kiss as he went back to his game. I recognized the game—my nephews were obsessed with it, their eyes never leaving the screen when I came to visit them.

“I can kick your—butt—at this game, too,” I said, editing my language for the young ears present.

“Oh, man. I think the lady just issued a challenge, C. You gonna let her talk to you like that?” Dallas handed me a bottle of some designer brand of water. I rolled my eyes, inwardly. Water was water. I didn’t need fancy, expensive water. ‘Rich people are so interesting,’ I thought, as I sucked down a few gulps. ‘But that’s really, really good water.’

“You know what? I have learned that when Serena says she’s really good at something, I should believe her. She kicked my ass all over some Mario Kart.”

“Say what?” Dallas fell into his chair, laughing. “You let her win, though right?”

“Nah, I just suck at Mario Kart,” he smirked. The game ended and he handed the controller off to another of the boys. “Can we give her the tour? I think she’d like some of the pictures you have up.” He offered a hand to me so I could stand up, his fingers lacing between mine as he led me through the house, following Dallas around the wide circle that made up his home.

Along the wall hung black and white photos of musicians, singers, songwriters, athletes, legends in one long straight line. He was proud of his collection of art pieces and eclectic design, as well as the additions that made home a fun place to be, like a built in movie theater and bowling alley, a babbling brook out back and the plush, shiny sound studio. It didn’t look like they’d spent a lot of time in there, but I recognized JC’s bag and suitcase in the corner.

“And here is where the tour ends and I tell you to get out of here, spend some time with your girl.” JC and Dallas shook hands, grinned at each other, made plans to see each other in a few months’ time and then JC swung his leather bag onto his shoulder. I grabbed the handle of his suitcase and followed him out of the studio, around the bend to the door.

“Good night, Dallas, thank you for the tour,” I said. He leaned down and touched a warm cheek to mine. “Anytime, sweetheart. You’ll be back, I’m sure. Drive safe. You know how to get out of here? Take a left, then a right, and you’re right there at the Interstate?”

I nodded. I knew the entire area well. I had spent a half hour driving it, trying to find his house.  Now that I knew where I was going, I could take the shortcut back home. JC and I piled into my car, I drove around on the circular drive, through the gate, and out onto the access road. JC reached over and turned up the music I had playing softly. I cringed. I knew he would have something to say about my disco fetish.

“Oh my GOD. KC and the Sunshine Band? And I listen to weird shit?” He turned the knob back down, the sounds of his laughter bouncing around the car.

“I’m glad you’re so amused. Disco is happy music, and I need happy music when I drive.”

“I’m not laughing at the disco. I’m laughing that you said I listen to weird shit, and you’re pushing KC and the Sunshine Band.”

He could pick on my music all he wanted, so long as he was inches from me. The smell of him filled my nostrils and took me back to that long, wonderful weekend. I reached over to his seat, took his hand and brought it to my lips, laying a soft kiss in his palm. In the faint glow of streetlights and the moon, I glanced over at him. He was staring out of the window, up at the Atlanta skyline. His hand came to rest on my thigh, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing back and forth against the denim of my jeans.

“So did you get –“ 

“I’m happy to—“

“Go ahead,” he said, with a squeeze to my thigh.

“I was going to ask if you guys got any work done or if you played all day.”

“Yeah,” he answered. “We got some good stuff down. Just writing, sketched out a few songs. Enough to go home and work on. I’ll see him in a few months and smooth it out, some.”

“Great, I can’t wait to hear something new from you. It’s been so long.” He didn’t respond, his thumb shoved in the corner of his mouth chewing on the nail. ‘Okay. Quit asking him about his music,’ I told myself. “So what were you saying? When I interrupted?”

He removed his thumb, resting his chin on his hand. “Just happy to be here,” he said, gazing out of the window. We were nearing my house, a neighborhood I loved because of its tree lined streets and rows and rows of “old Atlanta” architecture- wraparound porches and columns and sprawling lawns and long driveways. Though most homes had renovated interiors, the exteriors still boasted the charm of turn of the century.

“Tomorrow, we can take a walk around a few blocks if you want to look at some of the houses. They’re really neat in this area, every one of them different.”

JC nodded, and simply said, “Cool.”

I turned onto the familiar street and into the driveway, and then into the garage as the door slid open. JC yawned as he popped the latch on the door and stepped out of the car.  He looked around as he stretched, his face contorting and scrunching, noting the meticulously organized shelves around the perimeter.

“Go ahead, pick on my clean garage. I know you want to.”

“Not at all,” he said, yawning again, walking around. He stopped at my rolling, waist high tool box. “You have tools. Do you use these?”

“On occasion, yeah.”

He shook a finger at me, his eyes taking in the rows of tools and shelves stocked with random items. “See. This getting to know each other thing is working out.”

At the rear of the car, I pulled the large suitcase out of the trunk and slung his leather bag onto my shoulder. “Okay, I lied. My dad uses those to fix things when he comes over. Come on in,” I said, and unlocked the door into the house.

I was so nervous about having him at my house. It was so much smaller and less opulent than his home, and certainly could not measure up to Dallas’ spacious mansion. He didn’t seem the type to look down his nose at anyone, but then again, he’d also never say anything if he hated it. I just wanted him to be as comfortable in my home as I was in his.

I led him through the entry way to the stairs, past the kitchen. “Smells good,” he said, breathing deeply, taking in the smells of the Asian inspired meal. “Did you actually cook, or does someone else do that, too?”

He was already picking on me, so I guessed he was comfortable enough. “I actually cooked, you smartass. I’m leaving your suitcase here so you can drag it upstairs. I have something to show you.” I held out hand for him and he took it, allowing himself to be led through the house to a back room down a dimly lit hallway.

He began to hum sad, forlorn music. “Why do I feel like I’m going to the gallows?”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” I said, glancing back at him with a silly grin. I stopped at a closed door at the end of the hallway and turned the knob. I could already feel his grimace as he stepped into the small, dark room.  I flipped the switch and the room brightened, revealing my home office, with a few special touches.

“Look familiar?” I pointed toward a group of framed photos and posters that hung on one wall in my office.

He stepped closer to see the photos more clearly, and then I heard a small gasp escape him. His head slowly turned back to me. “Serena Willis. I have met you before.”

Instantly, I was thrown back to the night of my first *Nsync concert. My best friend and I went together—we were so excited we were jumping around in the car, screaming the lyrics to their songs, driving my dad crazy. We piled out of the car, with instructions to stay together, stay safe, and have fun, with our tickets and our backstage passes clutched tightly in our grasp. I remember being in a group of people, a screaming, yappy, giggling gaggle of girls, ushered down a hallway and told to line up. Instructions were given over and over and over. “You may take ONE photo. You may have ONE item autographed. Please do not linger in the line; you are not the only person waiting.”  My best friend, coincidentally Jen, was literally shaking as she set her concert program on the table in front of Lance, then she could barely speak as she made her way down the line.

The second JC’s hand touched mine and he looked me in the eye and said “hi”, I was in love with him. I loved them all, but there was something about him I was drawn to. He wasn’t even my type—I liked football players, linebackers. JC was tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and an angular face and a nose almost too big for it, spiky hair and an odd fashion sense but… there was something about him. Maybe in his eyes. They were all I stared at when I saw pictures of him over the years, and as he grew up and filled out and became a man, my attraction to him grew. That I ended up next to him on a flight to LA was nothing short of a dream turning into reality. It was surreal that he was standing in my office staring at a picture of himself holding my hand and giving a cheesy grin for the camera.

“Yep,” I said. “You have met me before.”

“Wow. I’m sorry I didn’t—“                                                                             

“Oh, JC. Honey,” I interrupted, waving him off. “Are you ever not nice? Don’t even try to apologize. I wouldn’t expect you to remember me. And I looked much different back then.” And I did. I wore glasses and my hair was a frizzy, curly mess.

He eyed me up and down, not even pretending he wasn’t sizing me up. “You grew up nice, though,” he said, wiggling eye brow. He turned back to the photo, gawking like he couldn’t believe it was him.  

“Man. Look at my hair!”

“I loved your Caesar cut. It was hot, back then. Very George Clooney.” I reached up to ruffle the hair at the base of his neck, lightly scratching at the skin there, my head on his shoulder. He shuddered at the touch and turned his head to meet my lips. His eye caught a frame hanging above my filing cabinet.

“Oh no, you don’t have that guy up there.” I followed his gaze to the poster of JC in a straitjacket, from the Schizophrenic album cover.

I snickered. “Yeah, I have that guy up there. I got that at your House of Blues show in Chicago, to be exact. I was visiting a customer, and your show was that night. I saw your dad, but he was across the room and I was too shy to say hi.”

He nodded, remembering. “You should have. He’s a nice guy.”

“I’ve heard.” I crossed my arms behind me and leaned up against the door jamb, watching him take one last look.

The room was quiet. So quiet you could have heard a pin drop on the carpet. I stared at his profile from across the room, feeling the heat rise, turning my cheeks pink. He was in my house, standing feet from me, staring slack jawed at photos, my degrees, pictures of my nephews, my parents, my brothers and other items from my past I deemed important enough to display. He had been inching toward the door, making his way around the room, and when I caught his eye I sent him a message. He heard it, loud and clear. He nodded his head toward the door.

I walked out first, then waited for him to come out, and closed the door behind us. He stood in the hallway, the only faint light coming from the kitchen. Before I could take a step down the hall, he closed the space between us, pushing me up against the door, his arms around my waist, his lips on mine, pressing, his tongue pushing my mouth open. I must have heaved the most satisfying sigh as his tongue stroked mine. He laughed, in the middle of the kiss, residual giggles coursing through him. I had that problem, again, where I couldn’t get close enough to him. Closer. I wanted to be closer.

“Please say you’re not hungry,” I pleaded, when I could break free from the iron grasp of his lips.

“I’m starving,” he said, his breath already hot on my neck. ”But if you make me wait, I will be furious with you. Take me… wherever your bed is. Upstairs?”

Without a word, I moved out of the door way and down the hall, dragging him with me. We bypassed his suitcase waiting patiently by the steps and rushed upstairs and down the hall to my bedroom. He was already undressing, panting, tossing clothes left and right. I lifted the hem of my shirt and he held out a hand.

“Stop!” he said, almost yelling. “Serena, wait. Wait. I want to do it. Wait.” He kicked off his jeans, sending them flinging and stood in socks and briefs, a sexy smile on his lips, hair going in several different directions, days of growth on his chin and cheeks. He sauntered toward me, reaching for the hem of my shirt and gently pulled it up. I raised my arms and it slipped over my head and joined a pile of his clothing on the floor.

“Lace.” He seemed to be spellbound by my breasts inside the bra I wore. It was new. Lace, because he seemed to like that. He reached out to touch them, tracing along the edge of the cup, his eyes half open, lashes shading them.

“My panties match,” I hinted, with a small smile. He caught the hint, and nimble fingers unsnapped my jeans, pushing them down off of my hips so I could kick out of them. My stylish boy shorts fit my body perfectly, and I wanted to show them off. He stepped back and rotated his finger in a circle, a silly grin on his face. He wanted me to turn and model for him, so I did, laughing to myself.

“Mmmm.” There was a bit of a growl to his voice, which grated right up against every nerve in my body. “Beautiful,” he mumbled, his lips lightly dancing over my shoulders. “I’m so happy to be here right now. I want you. It’s been too long.”

“I missed you so much.” I pushed him backward until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, heavily, onto the bed. I moved between his legs, took his face in my hands and made up for the weeks that I had not been able to take his face in my hands and kiss him, and let his stubble prick my fingers and my nose fill with the smell of him.

He moved back, onto the bed, dragging me with him until I was lying on top of him, across the bed, our limbs tangled together. He moaned and groaned and made sounds that let me know he was very happy. I couldn’t help but join him, of course, because sounds turned me on more than anything else. I needed him, though. Needed more than sounds.

“JC,” I panted. “I think I’ve been very patient, but if you don’t take this stuff off of me—“ I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence. He covered my mouth with his and within seconds I was naked. “Good boy,” I breathed, as he sat up to shimmy out of his briefs, his arousal apparent and bobbing in front of him.

“My condoms are in my suitcase, I’ll be right back.” He dashed for the door, and I heard him pounding down the steps and back up, lugging his suitcase behind him, dumping it onto the floor and hurriedly unzipping it, digging for the small black plastic bag that he found and tossed up onto the bed. He zipped his suitcase closed and then dove back onto the bed, beside me. 

“Do you want to do the honors?” he said, looking up at me, propped up on two elbows. It was an invitation if I ever heard one. I crawled around and as I’d done the first time, enjoyed him a little before ripped open the package and rolled the condom onto him. Giving his thigh a pat, I laid next to him.

“That’s all I get, baby?” He seemed disappointed, pouting a little as he glanced over to me, then his sheathed erection, then me.

“I’ll do you better later, I promise. I just didn’t want to waste a lot of time. Please?” I grabbed an arm and pulled him over, onto me, my legs wrapping around him, my body ready for him.

“You don’t want me to—“

“No! Don’t fucking tease me, you asshole!” I giggled with anticipation as he hovered over me, an angel and a devil at the same time. “I swear to fucking Holy--Oh my God….” I gasped, sucking in all the air I could get as I felt him push into me. I could have fainted, if it would have allowed me to still feel him, still climb the walls, still rock my hips against him.

Moving slowly, he teased me, sucking on any skin he could come into contact with, until he couldn’t hold back anymore and began to thrust with force. We were not in the bed at the hotel, nor were we in his bed at home. I liked to think my bed was sturdy, but it made quite a racket as it banged a rhythm up against the wall. The sheer pleasure of him blocked out the sound, though, and after a while, I didn’t even hear it. All I heard were gasps and yelps and groans in my ear, on my skin as we enjoyed each other. He sat up, slightly, picked up my right leg and moved it over to lay close to my left, turning me over, then picked me up and tucked himself close, thrusting from behind. An arm lifted to wrap around his neck, dig into his hair as he bit at my ear and whispered the dirtiest, naughtiest, sexiest things into one, and then the other.

“You bad, bad boy,” I purred, on the very edge of everything wonderful.

When a hand crawled down my body, while he was driving me to new heights from behind, I thought I really might pass out and fought to stay conscious. I laid a hand over his, helped him with the rhythm and couldn’t physically remain upright anymore. I fell forward, onto my hands and knees, and he landed on top of me but didn’t stop moving.

“Oh. Oh…my…God….fuck yeah,” I panted.

“Yeah? Is it good?” His words were muffled against my back, his chapped lips lightly scraping the skin.

I whimpered. “So good. Fuck. So good!”

“You feel good to me. So good. I’m close. I want to come with you. Are you close?”

“Ye--Yeah! I’m gonna…”

“Come for me. Let it go. Just let it go.”

If it were possible, he moved faster, harder until I felt an intense heat course through me. I watched my skin turn a deep red and beads of sweat drip onto the duvet. I stopped breathing for a few seconds and then the loudest, most guttural, most animalistic groan came from somewhere—I think it was me—and I came so hard my vision dimmed, then brightened, my ears popped, and then spots flashed all around the room. I collapsed onto the bed, JC on top of me, heaving and gasping for air.

“Did you…” I swallowed. My throat was on fire. “Did…” What was I saying? I couldn’t remember. “Fuck.”

“Yes. I fucked you,” he said, laughing, his muscles rippling. That felt different on my back.

“Smartass. Can you move?”

“Oh. Sorry.” He rolled off of me, laying on his back. A hand reached over to smooth my hair away from my face. “You alright over there? Need a doctor? Did I hurt ya?”

One eye opened to glare at him. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t want you to move off of me, “ I rasped. “I was asking if you could. Because I can’t. My throat is so dry. Could you run down and grab a bottle of water for me? I forgot, earlier.”

“Sure, be right back,” he said, hopping up. How the hell did he have so much damn energy? My head was swimming. Moving would take great effort.

“Well, it was a tough trek but I found the kitchen, eventually,” he said, laying the cold bottle of water against my back. I jerked, cursing under my breath. “Fucker.”

“Sit up, here.” Sit up? My arms were rubber. There was no way my back would hold my body weight.

“We’re not done, you better get up.  I’m just waiting for you to regain your strength. Drink up! Come on, mama.” He gave a pat to my ass and then rubbed, down to the backs of my knees and back up again, his heavy hands and calloused thumbs providing an amazing sensation.

I had more work to do. I managed to push myself to a sitting position and turn around, sitting cross-legged on the bed. I felt drunk. Deliciously drunk, but still drunk. I took the bottle of water he held out to me and accepted the kiss he leaned over to give me. I was sure I did not look hot or sexy, with my hair everywhere and dried sweat on my face—it was sweet of him to want to kiss me, really.

I sucked down the entire bottle of water—it felt so good on my throat—and belched. I giggled and covered my mouth. He belched louder, longer, and then planted a kiss on my cheek. “There,” he said. “Now I’m ruder than you.”

“Sweet,” I said, feeling more normal. “I think I over exerted myself.”

He looked proud, his chest swelling up. “I can’t think of a better way to work yourself to exhaustion.”

“Are you hungry? Can I fix you something?”

“Yes and yes. Please.” JC climbed off of the bed and waited to see if I could stand before following me down the stairs to the kitchen.

 “What’d you make?” he asked, sticking his nose into the stock pot as I removed the lid, stirred the contents and turned the burner back on.

“Sweet and sour soup, and a little noodle stir fry. Not exactly Chinese but I’ve made it before and it’s pretty good.”

“Smells good. What can I do?”

"Wash your hands and open a wine, if you want some. If not I have beer.”

“Beer’s fine,” he called from the powder room a few feet away. I heard water running, and then bare feet padding up the steps and then back down to the kitchen. 

“It’ll be a few minutes," I called over my shoulder, giggling inwardly at his deathly pale, hairy legs. 

He shrugged, and opened the refrigerator, pulling a bottle of beer from the various varieties I had stocked. I wasn’t sure what he would be in the mood for, so it might have been overkill, but it wasn’t like it wouldn’t be consumed eventually. I took my turn in the bathroom, and dashed upstairs to throw on a long t-shirt. When I came back down, JC was perched on the couch in my living room, flipping through one of the photo albums that I had stacked under the mounted television.

I checked my soup, just beginning to boil, the aroma rising into the air and giving me a warm, comforting feeling. I turned the burner on under the skillet so that the noodles could warm as well, then popped open a beer.

“This must be Regina,” JC called from the living room. I rolled my eyes. She would have to ruin a perfectly wonderful evening. I slowly made my way to the couch and balanced on the arm next to him, dropping a hand to his head and running my fingers through his hair. He leaned against me, so casual and comfortable it almost took my breath away. It was the little things that mattered to me.

I glanced over his shoulder, noting the picture he’d been talking about. “Yep, that’s her,” I confirmed, taking a long drink of the cold draught. There wasn’t much else to say, except that the photo was ages old, back when she was cleaner—well, less strung out—and we looked more alike.

“The resemblance is amazing. It’s like another Regina.”

“Except not,” I snapped, and stood up, stomping into the kitchen. Everyone always said that, that I was a ‘little Regina.’ I was no such thing. I was clean and sober and I didn’t sell my body for drugs and I was a fucking success, thank you very much!

I stirred the soup, then the noodles. They’d be ready in minutes. I was already sizzling, and needed to relax. I felt hands on me, on my shoulders, kneading softly, working their way down my arms, then back up to my neck, where soft lips left a lingering, sweet kiss. “I’m sorry,” I heard, felt as he whispered in my ear. “I keep bringing her up and upsetting you and I don’t mean to.”

“ ‘ts okay,” I said, tears threatening. “It’s just uhm… everyone always says that and it pisses me off. And since I started going to therapy, it’s bringing everything up—“

He grasped my shoulders roughly and twisted me around. “Therapy? You started therapy?” His eyes were wide. He acted like I’d told him I’d murdered someone. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…” I shrugged. I didn’t know why. Or maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to make sure it was the right thing to do, before I committed to it. “I was just giving it some time, JC. It’s no big deal. I need to turn this stuff off before it burns.”

I turned back around and flipped off each burner, reaching above the stove for serving dishes. He reached above me, grabbed the dishes out of my hands and set them down on the counter. He wrapped his arms around me tightly, drawing me to him, his chest against my back.

“I’m proud of you. You know that? I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly, softly, smiling to myself. Okay, maybe I was waiting to tell him in person, so I could get that kind of response. It made me happy, and I felt like he actually cared.

I dumped the noodles onto a serving plate and poured a healthy portion of soup into a serving bowl, set the table, and we sat down to eat. JC was talking endlessly about some documentary he watched on the History Channel about how money was made. I wasn’t really paying attention; I just liked the sound of his voice, so I let him talk as he rambled on and on, telling story after story, switching gears to a different story, all the while eating and sipping soup. He was so…. entertaining. I could listen to him for hours.

He insisted on cleaning up after dinner, pushing me back down into the chair every time I tried to get up. He found the Rubbermaid containers to put the leftovers away, and then rinsed the skillet and stock pot and added them to the collection of dishes in the dishwasher. He even wiped down the stove and countertops before deciding he was done and offering a hand to me, wiggling his fingers, beckoning as if to say, “come on.”

“It’s later. You owe me something.” I took his hand and let him lead me back up the stairs. I guessed he was sufficiently fueled for round two.