his hips. He broke apart, breathless and trembling, and he laid his head on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “It’ll be perfect. Thank you.”
He felt a soft vibration, heard a faint tone, but he didn’t think it was words. A soft groan, maybe, as Lorenzo curled his hands into Wilder’s shirt and just held him. It was nothing like he expected—and he wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he knew he was right in not wanting to let him go.
He pulled back after a minute, offering Lorenzo a sheepish smile, and he shrugged. ‘I like you.’
Lorenzo chuckled. ‘I can tell.’
Wilder felt a pang of something uncomfortable, an old, broken fear left over when Scott had used his body against him. If Wilder was hard, it was obvious he wanted it. If Wilder wanted it, he had no right to tell Scott no. It had taken him years to stop being afraid of his own body, to reclaim the idea of consent. But showing physical desire still terrified him a little.
The look in Lorenzo’s eyes was nothing like Scott, though. It was soft, it was wonder, it was hesitance. It calmed him and took away some of the trembling in his hands when he lifted them. ‘We should eat, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Lorenzo looked almost relieved, and he quickly took the containers of food to plate everything, moving around Wilder’s kitchen like he’d been there a dozen times. He turned around, a small grin lifting the corners of his mouth, making him look young and a little unsure.
Wilder moved around him for water before leading him to the living room and easing down with his legs stretched under the coffee table. It was small, barely room for both of them, but it felt good to have Lorenzo pressed against his side like he was always meant to be there.
“So, tell me,” Lorenzo started, then froze.
It took Wilder a second to realize why Lorenzo hesitated, then he shook his head. “There’s no background noise. I can hear you.”
Lorenzo’s voice was muffled, but he could make out all the consonants and most of the vowels as he leaned in to finish what he was saying. “You can tell me if the food sucks. I promise it won’t hurt my feelings.”
Although Wilder had a feeling that was at least partially a lie, he nodded. “Trust me—my diet is bland. This…does not look bland.” He wasn’t making that up, either. He ate a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables, but his proteins were always lacking when he had to forgo all seasonings and salt. Even the low-sodium soy sauce was too much on most days, and he had never been very creative when it came to meals.
His baking—that was different. But he had resigned himself to a diet without any real pleasure behind what he was eating. Until now. He could smell the richness of it—the bite of wine, the mushrooms, the garlic. He took some onto his fork, then ate it, and his eyes shut with real pleasure.
It was good. He didn’t have to lie or placate. It lacked the sort of tongue-curling sharpness of salt that he missed and craved too often, but in place of that was a sort of richness that brought him something like comfort.
“Wow.”
“You’re not just saying that?” Lorenzo asked.
Wilder set his plate down and turned to face him. “Did you try it?”
At that, Lorenzo scowled. “I always taste my food when I eat it. But it isn’t the recipe I’m used to. It’s not how I’m used to cooking. If I told my mom no salt and no parm, she’d cry. And this really isn’t as good as hers.”
Wilder grinned and shook his head. “I probably won’t get the chance to compare. Even on my good days, I have to be careful. So, in our world,” he reached over and laid his hand to Lorenzo’s cheek, “this is the best risotto recipe ever made.”
Lorenzo swallowed thickly. “So, eat it, then.”
Wilder laughed, and then he did. They kept the conversation small, easy—Lorenzo told him about his day at Collin’s ranch and how things had smoothed out between him and the goat, which would have been hilarious and absurd if it didn’t happen so often.
“I don’t think I did any good out there,” Lorenzo said as he scraped the last of the food off his plate and set it down on the table. “I mean, he won’t be in a rush to hire me for, you know, farmhand stuff.”