Time to step up.
Literally. He stood, took two steps and reached for her shoulder. The sweater was warm, she was warm and soft, and she smelled like something sweet, a vanilla-scented perfume that made half the words fall out of his head before he could say them, replaced by a desire to embrace her and just stand there, bathed in her. Warmed by her.
Holding back that impulse was 100 times harder than not shoving Dylan had been. “Laura, it's fine.” She tipped her face up, head at an angle, eyebrows up and questioning. Is it really? her face seemed to ask.
“I know,” she answered. He froze. Expecting to comfort her, to reassure her, instead she came out with the one answer he'd least expected, the one answer that made his heart swell and his mind nearly crack in half. For Laura knew herself far better than he had ever imagined.
And that made this all the more compelling.
“If there is any hope here,” she said, talking to him but also giving her eyes equally to Dylan, who now stood next to Mike, “we need to get two things straight.”
They nodded.
“No more lies. None. That doesn't mean we need to spill everything about ourselves into one big baggage pile-up right here and right now – ”
“But we could! I could! When I was in eighth grade I set fire to a field that caught train tracks on fire. And my senior year I slept with the new, hot assistant principal at my – ” Laura cut Dylan off with a well-placed finger to the lips. Mike got hard just watching it. He could only imagine what Dylan felt.
“No.” She tsk tsk'd him, finger now wagging in his face. “But no more enormous lies. You're lucky I am even here tonight.”
“We know,” they said in unison. She laughed. Mike felt a shift in the balance of power now, as if she had come in uncertain and questioning and now – she was the one in charge. It made his body buzz a bit more, set his senses on fire, and made him want to rescind his earlier offer of no expectations.
Fortunately, his rational mind knew better. But his body....He'd need to run a solid half marathon to pound this one out.
“What's the second rule?” Dylan asked, his hand running up and down her arm, slow and steady.
“No sex. Not tonight. Not until I ask. Being double-teamed like that – ”
Dylan snorted involuntarily. Mike cocked his jaw in irritation and kicked him in the calf. Dylan yelped.
Laura just shook her head and resumed. “Being – OK, new word – ambushed, by you guys, was really destabilizing. I don't regret anything we did. Not for one second.” She took a step back and Mike understood why. It was getting hot in here.
“And yet...I need to just hang out with you. Get comfortable. Understand how this all works. It's not like there are books out there on how to be a threesome.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mike muttered. “I checked.”
Every muscle on Laura's face came to life with laughter. “Me, too!”
Dylan shook his head. “I totally didn't.” He stopped rubbing Laura's arm and ran his hand through his hair. A puff of white smoke popped up over his head and his dark hair stood on end. He looked, to Mike, like an adult, human version of a Muppet. The one who cooked with the Swedish chef.
“Oh, my God, you look like Beaker! From the Muppets!” Laura squealed, patting his head as the hair sprang back up. “Myork! Myork! Myork!” she shouted, jumping up and down, her sweater climbing up and giving Mike a splendid view of her ass in what looked to be well-loved jeans. He could love them, too.
Being patted on the head didn't seem to suit Dylan; he looked like a dog being poked in the eye by a toddler, begging his master to rescue him, knowing he couldn't bite back. Tough shit, Buddy, Mike thought. You get to be Beaker for now.
Dylan rescued himself, his fingers clasping Laura's wrist the third time she tried to flatten his hair. He led her into the kitchen and handed her a colander. “Unlike the Swedish chef dude, I don't set meals on fire, so let's get this pasta going.”
“You do so set things on fire,” Mike objected, ready to tell Laura plenty of stories about his roommates kitchen screw-ups.
“Not since I became a firefighter.”
“Touché. You did nearly destroy a dorm kitchen single-handedly with a toaster and a frosted Pop-Tart, though.”
“Not my fault. Do you have any idea how many fire safety seminars there are about Pop-Tart glaze? It's breathtaking.”
“Yeah. Makes me gasp.” Mike poured a few inches of wine in his and Laura's glasses as she shot him a surprised look. Sarcasm didn't suit him, he knew. It oozed out when he was anxious.
Anxious? Still? Things seemed settled. Ish.
Ding! The kitchen timer went off. Dylan leaped and ran, leaving a small cloud of white flour in his wake. “The meatballs!” he shouted. Mike and Laura followed, curious.
“Oh, what is that amazing scent?” Laura asked, pretending to swoon. Maybe she really was. Mike was half delirious himself from the smell of whatever Dylan was making. Taking a chance, Mike slid his arm around Laura's shoulders. She relaxed into him, keeping her eyes on Dylan. The press of her body into his felt so comfortable he needed to pause and blink, arm resting against the nape of her neck, across her shoulders, the casual comfort of the gesture so...right.
This was what he missed most. The normalcy of a night of cooking, of hanging out, watching movies and just relaxing. Being. Living. As Dylan pulled a meatball out and put parts of it on forks for everyone to taste, something in Mike released. Exhaled.
It felt damn good. Better than sex right now.
Laura snuggled in closer, her arm reaching for the fork, taking it from Dylan, lips closing over the morsel, her ribs expanding against Mike as she sighed. Eyeing the contact between the two, Dylan just smiled. Cool. Everyone was finally starting to chill.