RISK & REWARD

18 | 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴

"HOW much of that did you hear?" I ask. I refuse to look behind me; I'm well-aware that Slade's standing in the middle of my apartment, probably confused beyond words, but I don't want to look at her.

"All of it." Her response is smooth and cool and maybe possibly amused; I nearly bang my forehead on the door, groaning as the temptation to follow in Slade's example and rip out my hair makes itself known in the forefront of my brain.

"That was my neighbor," I moan, eyes closing. "I'm — sorry, she's...army vet nurse who might be doing coke every three hours, I don't know. She's...convinced, you're my, uh..."

"Boyfriend?" Slade half-laughs, and I can hear the little smirk in her voice. "Yeah, I heard."

"I've tried to tell her you're a friend — she asked about you when you took the bus with me, after your crash. I...she won't listen." I cringe as I finally turn, daring to face the shadow with her arms folded over her chest and her chin tilted down.

"I heard." Slade's eyes gleam from beneath the shadow cast by her hair. "She sounds very convinced."

"She is." Weakly, I let my hand fall off the door, gesturing vaguely to my apartment. "So, um, yeah. Welcome to my place."

Slade's eyes flick away from mine as she takes in my apartment. "It's not huge, I know," I start, suddenly quite embarrassed of my own very humble abode; it's a little bigger and a little airier than Slade's, but still. "I wasn't really ready for a guest tonight."

I slip past her, grabbing the unfolded blanket strewn across the corner of my couch and rush to get it folded into a neat square, dropping it back on the arm. "I — if you want to shower, or anything, the bathroom's right there — I can get food warmed up while you're in there."

Slade glances back over her shoulder at the open bathroom door. Her eyes flick from me to the doorway.

"Okay," she agrees, tentative. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, like she's hesitant about something.

"Towels are under the sink," I add, nodding to the barely-visible outline of the vanity. "Just toss it over the edge of the tub when you're done. You can use all of my stuff; soap, shampoo, you know."

Slade's quiet for a minute.

"Pasta sounds good." Her voice is tiny, soft; she shoots me a brief little smile before she dips her head, taking a step back toward the bathroom. "You...offered earlier."

"Oh." I stand up a little straighter, face warming because I've learned that apparently every time Slade smiles I have to go hot too. "Okay, yeah. I'll get it set. It's — alfredo sauce, is that alright?"

Slade's face is blank. "Sure."

"You know, the — the white stuff." I raise a brow. "Have you not had it before?"

Slade shifts her weight. "No."

That's new. I blink, cracking my head to either side. "In that case," I reply, flicking on the kitchen lights, "this'll have to be your first."

I catch Slade swallowing, hard, out the corner of my eye. "Okay," she answers, watching me retreat into the kitchen. Her expression is something I can't quite comprehend; she looks confused, embarrassed, and excited all at once. After a moment, I hear the bathroom light click on; the door closes, and a minute later I hear the rush of water in the pipes as the shower starts up.

There's a little victorious feeling in my chest as I get out the huge bowl of sauce I'd so readily prepared for this week on Sunday. I'm not sure if Slade will even like it — I mean, I do, but I'm probably not the world's greatest chef and I'd kind of fuck-it-we-ball'd this whole recipe, but hey, we'll try.