I scanned him though I didn’t need to. I knew what Ace looked like. Had every inch of him memorized like some Grade-A creep. His hair was still in the knot it was in last night, but it was flopped over and hanging by his ear. There were loose pieces falling down his neck and one stuck to his eyelash. Sleep and lack of coffee muted the green in his eyes. I watched as he yawned and scratched his chest, his T-shirt lifting to expose skin right above his waistband. His knuckles mindlessly brushed the exposed skin.
I wanna be those knuckles.
He cleared his throat. The barbell in his eyebrow raised when he gave me a look.
“You checking me out, man?”
I snorted, flipping him off. “You wish.”
He winked and turned around, shaking his ass before he started down the hall. “Let’s move, sugar lips! I did not start my day off making breakfast for a lazy hunk of man meat.”
“Are you flirting with me?” I shouted.
“I sure as shit am!”
I chuckled and rolled out of bed, dragging on the first pair of sweats I could find. I trudged down the hallway and slid onto a stool, dropping my head to the counter. “Since when do you cook?”
“I cook.”
“No, you do not. You live off Red Vines, Slim Jims, and leftover takeout.”
“Well, today I cooked. So eat your damn food.”
“Fine, mom,” I mocked, sitting up straight. I wasn’t at all surprised to find a turkey sandwich sitting in front of me. Ace didn’t subject himself to food norms. He ate whatever the hell he wanted when he wanted. If he wanted pesto chicken at eight in the morning, that’s what he’d eat.
“He made me a sandwich,” I joked, sinking my teeth into the bread.
“Fuck you,” he spat. “I was too lazy to make spaghetti.”
“Dude, we got any pickles?” Crumbs went flying from the small sliver of space between my lips.
He plopped down on the stool beside mine. “I’m not your pickle handler.”
“Bro,” I snorted. “You could not handle my pickle.”
But I definitely wanted him to try..