Page 38 of His Holy Chaos

"You're very small next to me," he says. I roll my eyes. He smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling, making him look ten years younger and more dangerous.

We get dressed and I curse under my breath fourteen times while trying to pull sweatpants over skin that feels like it's been kissed by a sunburn. It even pulses in rhythm with my heart. Feeling it all over again makes me half-hard. Ford watches me struggle with an expression of pure amusement, already fully back in his fancy clothes, looking like he just stepped out of a menswear catalog while I'm over here hobbling around like a baby giraffe on its first day.

"You could help me," I say, hopping on one foot.

"I could," he agrees, and doesn't move.

"Sadist."

"Thank you. You say that like it's an insult."

Then I hear it.

Through the catastrophically thin walls (so thin I once heard Noa sneeze in his sleep from my bed), a bassline hits, thick, followed by the unmistakable opening of Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie." It's loud. Noa always listens to loud music, but he must have been trying to drown us out.

"Oh God," I mutter.

Ford raises an eyebrow. "Is that your roommate?"

"Welcome to my life."

I open the bedroom door, and we step into the hallway, and the sound hits us along with the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. Olive oil, garlic, onions, paprika. And in the middle of all of it, there's Noa. He's dancing. Not the self-conscious sway of someone who got caught singing in the shower. This is full-body, full-commitment, hips-don't-lie-and-neither-does-anything-else-on-him dancing. He's in an oversized t-shirt, probably Henry's, that keeps slipping off one shoulder, and a pair of very short shorts that barely reach his thighs, his dark curly hair bouncing wildly with every turn. His bare feet slide across the kitchen tile, his hips rolling so easily it would make the actual Shakira look over her shoulder.

He spots us in the hallway and doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Just points the wooden spoon he's holding at Ford, his big black eyes wide and bright with joy.

"He does this a lot?" Ford asks me, clearly having fun.

"Every time he cooks, so yes, three to six times a day. The dancing is non-negotiable. He once did a full merengue while making scrambled eggs."

"I can hear you!" Noa calls over the music, spinning back to the stove to flip something in the pan. "And it was bachata, you uncultured swine!"

He grabs a plate and starts arranging the crispy golden potatoes. Then reaches for two sauces he's already prepared: the brava sauce, red and aggressive-looking in a small bowl, and an aioli so white and glossy it could be in a magazine. He drizzles both over the potatoes like he learned from one too many 2 AM cooking videos, which he absolutely watches. I've caught him.

"Ford," I say, "in case you forgot, this is Noa. My roommate and my best friend. Noa, this is Ford. My… my Daddy."

Ford extends his hand again. "We met briefly when I arrived, but it's a pleasure to properly meet you, Noa."

Noa wipes his hands on a dish towel, takes Ford's hand, and shakes it with a grip that I know from experience is startlingly strong for someone his size. Then he looks at Ford, and I can see the assessment happening in real time. The expensive watch. The tailored shirt. The broad shoulders. The silver hair, immaculate even after an hour of sleeping in my bed.

"You made him cry," Noa says, point-blank. "Good job!"

"Noa!" My face catches fire.

"The walls are thin, Jude. I heard things. I processed them. I've moved on. I'm just saying." He turns back to Ford, and his expression softens, and he laughs. "Good tears, though. I can tell the difference. He needs that. He cries all the time anyway."

"I am going to kill you," I say. "I am going to murder you and hide the body in the Monstera pot. Besides, I have to listen to you and Henry all the time, so give me a fucking break."

"It's not big enough for me," Noa says, making a face at me, as if he's disgusted. I stick my tongue out at him, and he does the same back. "And I didn't know living with me was such a chore for you. I'm deeply offended."

"Shut up!" I exclaim and then turn to Ford. "So this is how you feel about brats. Okay, I totally get it now." But Noa is giggling. "Stop being such a drama queen!"

"A drama queen but a queen nonetheless, baby. You hungry, papi? I made enough for three because I always make enough for three because this one…" he jabs the wooden spoon in my direction, "eats like a stray dog who found an open dumpster."

The way he says papi makes something shift inside me. Not jealousy. I could never be jealous of Noa, even if I tried. He always calls me that too, but hearing him call Ford that… I love it. I make a mental note to use it sometime.

"I would love some," Ford says, and I watch him settle onto one of the high stools at the counter. I take the other stool, arranging myself sideways so my weight falls on my thigh instead of my ass, and Ford catches it and has the audacity to look pleased about it. The smug bastard. The devastatingly handsome smug bastard.

Noa sets a plate of papas bravas in front of each of us and one at his own spot by the stove, where he eats standing up because he's never been able to sit still long enough to finish a meal. The potatoes are perfect. Shattering-crisp outside, fluffy inside, the brava sauce bringing a slow heat while the aioli cools it down. Kind of like how Ford is with me: the spanks making it burn, his tenderness cooling the pain down. I'm such a poet. Ford takes one bite, and I watch his eyebrows climb.