Page 79 of Ghost Ribbon

It no longer surprised me, and yet I still found it strangely endearing each time it happened, the brief widening of his eyes before he gave in and let it happen. As if some part of him remained convinced I shouldn’t be capable of tenderness, and every time I offered it, it arrived as a shock.

Sure enough, when I drew away, he looked faintly dazed.

Cute.

I sat up fully and swung my legs off the bed. “I ordered you strawberry pancakes.”

His whole face changed. “Strawberry?” he repeated, like he thought he might have misheard me.

I gave him a pointed look. “No, Marco. I said cabbage.”

His mouth fell open.

Then he realized I was mocking him and made a tiny offended sound.

“You’re mean in the morning.”

“I’m mean at all times. You’re only noticing because you’re distracted by pancakes.”

He stared at me for one second, then all but scrambled out of bed.

He moved quickly enough that the oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder, hanging crooked over his frame while he pushed his curls out of his face with both hands and looked around as if the pancakes might run away.

I stood and followed him out into the kitchen.

On the counter sat a plate stacked with strawberry pancakes and sliced fruit, exactly where I had left them.

“You were serious,” he said softly.

“I usually am.”

He turned and looked at me with something so open and pleased in his face that I had to actively stop myself from touching him again right then.

He huffed a little laugh and slid onto one of the stools at the counter, still looking at the plate as if it might vanish if he blinked wrong. Then he picked up the fork and took the first bite.

I leaned one hip against the opposite counter and watched.

For a person so often consumed by anxiety, he had a very transparent relationship with happiness. When he liked something, you knew. He lit from the inside out.

I found myself wanting to guard that light.

***

A few days later I woke earlier than usual because a certain idiot had decided to become even more of a problem than normal.

The so-called idiot was Dimitri.

I knew it was him before I even checked my phone, because only Dimitri would call me six times before sunrise and leave voice messages that ranged from outright yelling to something that sounded suspiciously like a death threat directed at a flower shop.

I picked up on the seventh call. “What.”

“Get up.”

I stared at the ceiling above my bed, unimpressed. “What is this about.”

“It’s about Rei.” That got me out of bed.

Not because I cared about Dimitri’s problems. I didn’t. But when Dimitri said Rei’s name in that particular tone it usually meant I was about to be dragged into something idiotic.