Click to Subscribe - By L. M. Augustine Page 0,57

trip and since we’re both too tired and smiley to want to leave each other’s side, she tells me to stay here for the night. With her. I don’t even think about it before agreeing.

She gets out a sleeping bag for me, spreads it out in the corner of her room, and I take off my shirt and stretch across it as she climbs into her own bed. I watch as she covers herself with an array of blankets, smiling a little. I imagine what it would be like to lie there with her, to feel her heat, her body, her skin against mine. To just hold her and never, ever let go.

One day, I tell myself, I will get there.

Cat and I stay up late, just lying in our respective beds and laughing and talking with each other. We don’t talk about what just happened, though. Not about the kiss, not about any of this. Instead, we spend our time discussing Switzerland politics, mostly about the political situation with Switzerland chocolate and how we might go about buying some more.

“Night, West,” Cat says after a while, when the conversation dies down.

“Night, Cat,” I say back. She winks at me. Then, she turns off the light and we’re flooded in darkness.

I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. I mean, I try to, but all I can think about is the kiss and about Cat, now so close to me. She falls asleep quickly, and eventually I just lie there, listening to each of her soft breaths. I let myself smile. It’s so peaceful—warm and cozy and peaceful—knowing she’s at my side.

Even though we’re separated by five feet of space, the possibilities with Cat and me race through my brain all night long. And I don’t want them to stop, either.

The next morning, I get up early and make Cat an egg sandwich, which is complete with way too much bacon. I set it out for her, turn off the stove, sit on a chair in the kitchen, and wait for her to come down. She’s still wearing her pajamas when she finally stumbles down the stairs, yawning and smiling at the same time.

“Hey,” she says and slides into a seat at the table beside me. “Nice shirt,” she adds, and I glance down at my bare stomach. I’m wearing nothing but my red-checkered boxers.

“I thought you might like that.”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” she says, pouring herself an orange juice.

The morning air cools my body as I reheat the eggs, then scrape them back off the pan and onto a fresh plate. Then, I put halves of an English muffin on either side of the egg, wrap it in bacon and cheese, and slide the plate across the counter over to her.

She sniffs it and smiles. “Extra bacon?”

“Of course.”

“You know me so well.”

I grin. I grab the little remaining bits of egg, scoop it into my own plate, and join Cat at the table. She squeezes my hand, and another string of warmth goes through me. “Thanks for breakfast,” Cat says. “You’re almost a better cook than I am.”

“Always, Red Velvet,” I say. “Always.

We spend the rest of the morning gossiping, debating which food item is the most superior (ice cream, duh), and Cat makes a “why did the chicken cross the road?” joke that causes me to laugh before she even says the joke, because something about the fact that a chicken would cross a road for a real purpose in the first place is so hilarious to me. Eventually, when we’re both finished with breakfast and I’ve cleared the plates, the morning melts into turning on the local news and making fun of as many things about it as possible. It’s a perfect Saturday, really, and I don’t think I’ve ever smiled more.

She’s mine now, and I’m hers, and something about that makes me feel so utterly invincible.

“So Cat,” I say finally, standing on the other side of the counter and turning to her. “Today is your birthday, and we must celebrate it like true dorks. Besides, that is, talking to this hot shirtless stranger who has made you breakfast.”

She rolls her eyes. “And where is this hot stranger? I’m not seeing him…”

I snort at that, then proceed to shoot her a look. She holds up her hands in defense. “Hey man,” she says. “I’m just speaking the truth.”

“Hater.”

“Liar.”

“So,” I say, leaning toward her from across the counter. “Shall we celebrate your birthday with ice cream?”

“OH MY