Sid’s frown deepened. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Reasonable. It doesn’t suit you.”
Dante glanced around, then risked stepping closer, narrowing the gap between them until barely an inch of space remained. “So, what does suit me? Kicking around a crappy bungalow all afternoon watchingColumbo?”
Sid snorted, and his jaw tensed like it was taking a concerted effort to keep his stony expression in place. “As if you don’t know who did it within the first five minutes.”
“That’s why it’s a waste of my time to watch it.”
“Watch something else then.”
“Like what?”
Dante’s phone interrupted them, beeping with an incoming message. Frowning, Dante fished it from his pocket. Sid was right in front of him, and bar automated texts from the probation service, no one else sent him messages.
Until now.
Paolo:My nonna’s recipe for pasta with olive oil, garlic, and broccoli, but you can use pretty much any green shit you want. Your brother adds chilli, but he’s a freak, so don’t listen to him. Good luck.
A second message came through with a photograph of an ancient scrap of paper with a recipe scrawled on it. It was barely legible. Dante squinted at it, deciphering the tiny handwriting and matching it to his limited cooking skills that weren’t, in fact, his at all, more a by-product of watching Sid.
Sounds simple enough. But so did lots of things. Like loving Sid when he had no business breathing the same fucking air as—
“Dante.”
“Hmm?” Dante glanced up from his phone. Sid was watching him, arms threaded across his chest. “What?”
“Nothing. Just watched about seven different moods pass through your face, that’s all. It made my head spin.”
“Sorry.”
“What? No. That’s not what I meant.” Sid shook his head. “Wow. I’m shit at talking today. Look,I’msorry, okay? I’m stressing over this stupid fucking display and taking it out on you. Just... take the rest of the day off... please? For me? I’ll feel better if I know you’re not up to your elbows in mud somewhere.”
A dozen arguments played on Dante’s lips. More. But as he stared at Sid and Sid stared at him, he swallowed them down. Fighting with Sid was pretty low on the list of ways they could spend their time together, and agitating Sid into an MS crisis was even lower.
He stole another glance around, then reached for Sid’s soil-stained hands, taking them both in his own and tangling their fingers together. “I don’t know how to do any of this—like, not just the sex part. All of it.”
Sid rubbed his thumb over Dante’s knuckles. “You’re a thinker, but I wonder if you’ve ever thought about the possibility that I don’t know how to do most of it either.”
It wasn’t a question.
And in any case, Dante didn’t have the answer. He held Sid’s hands as long as he dared, then let go and backed away. “Can I make you dinner later?”
Sid blinked. Of the things he’d perhaps expected Dante to say, maybe he’d expected that the least. “You’re going to cook?”
“I’m going to try. I have no pans, though.”
“Use mine. I like coming home to find you in my place.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sid’s hands twitched. He shoved them in his pockets and brushed a swift kiss to Dante’s cheek. “And not just because I get to see you naked. You’re better at living than you realise.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
“Good. Cos it’s fucking gospel.”