“What is going on with you today?” Dani demanded.
Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
For some reason, the muffin? was still on Dani’s mind later that night.
It was ridiculous, of course. Zaf had serious dadlike tendencies; she’d always known that. His habit of feeding her didn’t mean anything, and anyway, she didn’t want it to mean anything. He was her universe-mandated fuck buddy, and fuck buddies didn’t run around making gentle romantic gestures. Fuck buddies didn’t know or care that explicit expressions of affection gave Dani hives; nor did they find subtler, easier, low-pressure ways to make her feel special. Fuck buddies just . . . fucked.
Zaf might be a hopeless romantic, but he wasn’t romantic about her. She was hardly his ideal. She was hardly his forever.
Still, Sorcha’s waggling eyebrows nagged at Dani for hours.
Perhaps she felt guilty for stealing the muffin, or maybe she couldn’t forget its particular yumminess. Whatever the reason, when she and Zaf lay panting in bed that evening, some sort of dessert demon took over Dani’s body. She turned to him and murmured, “I think I ate your muffin today.”
He laughed, still slightly breathless. Then he nudged her in the ribs, a familiar tease that soothed the awkward tension in her belly. “Good. That was for you, you dork.”
Shit. “Why?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why did I get you a muffin?”
She nodded tightly.
“Because I knew you wanted one.” When Dani remained silent, her feelings an uncertain tangle, he cupped her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and her cheeks warmed, even though he’d touched far more intimate places minutes ago. “Do I need a reason to make my friend smile?”
Well, when he put it like that. “I suppose not,” she said on an exhale. Friends. That’s the way things were between them, and there was no danger in friendship, no pressure, no expectation. She’d been silly to worry.
Because she had been worried. Most definitely. This hollow hunger in the pit of her stomach was . . . erm . . . relief.
“Good.” Zaf ran his hand down her throat, over her collarbone. Cupped her breast, bent his head, kissed her there. “You’re so reasonable when we’re naked.”
She smacked his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”
“If I made a pun right now, would you throw me out of bed?”
“Best not to find out,” she said dryly, and pushed his head back to her breast.
Their phone call that night was slow and easy, almost as if Zaf had called just to talk instead of to prove he’d gotten home safe. Dani tried to mind, and failed. The pillow he’d lain on smelled just like him, and if she fell asleep with her arms wrapped tight around it . . .
At least there was no one there to see.
Hi Zaf,
I’m happy to inform you that our head teacher was as impressed by your work as I am. We’d love to have you teach a workshop to one Year Nine class and one Year Eleven class over the summer term. Please find a proposed schedule attached.
Kind regards,
Emma Cheung
By the third week of their arrangement, and the second week of their, er, sexual arrangement, the scarlet flower of affection in Zaf’s chest—the one that was supposed to die—had multiplied. He was housing a brightly colored meadow, beautiful and dangerous.
Every morning, he woke up and told himself, This is minor. This will pass. At least you’re not in love with her. And every night, he ran his hands over Danika’s skin, kissed the moans from her mouth, lost himself inside her, and pretended the squeeze of his heart was some kind of deadly arrhythmia, or a hallucination, or something he’d eaten. Anything but that reckless thing he was absolutely not allowed to feel. Anything but that.
Weekends were the best and the worst. Best, because he couldn’t see Dani at work, didn’t have to spend his lunch worrying about how many of his reactions to her were just for show and how many were an overflow of affection. Worst, because trying not to pine over Dani might be uncomfortable, but waiting all day to see her was starting to feel like torture.
Which couldn’t be a good sign.
It was Saturday morning, a week before Dani’s symposium—and ten days until their fake relationship and their fuck-buddy status were both due to end. Just ten more days, he told himself, and you can start getting back to normal. Then he pulled out his phone and texted her, not because he needed to, but because his day would be a thousand times better once she replied.
ZAF: Hey. Are you free tonight?
She was always free, but he always asked. He kept it simple, though, kept it light. Wouldn’t want to come on too strong, or she might notice that he, you know, adored her beyond reason.
Then again, he was starting to think Danika wouldn’t notice adoration if it smacked her in the face with a feather pillow, so he was probably safe. Kindness from someone other than her sisters or Sorcha left her baffled. Every time he asked how her day had gone, or fed her snacks while she prepared for her symposium instead of telling her to stop, she looked at him like he might be some lizard overlord wearing human skin. Then she shrugged and went on with her day, because, presumably, Dani didn’t have a problem with lizard overlords as long as they left her books alone.
She must be buried in those very books right now, because the text he hoped for never came. In the end, Zaf spent his Saturday the way he usually did: taking the kids to a local league game with Jamal in the morning, bringing his mother vegetable pakoras at the shop, and listening to Fatima talk about a show called Fleabag for way too long. Then he went home, clicked through some promising emails, and thought about the one from Mac Stevens that he still hadn’t answered.
It was past time he did something
