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I flashed him a quick smile. “I used to love them,” I told him. “I can’t eat them anymore, but they really are tasty.”

He picked up a breaded cheese curd and examined it. “Why make tiny versions of mozzarella sticks?” he asked.

“Heathen,” I teased him. “First of all, they’re cheddar, not mozzarella. And, second, cheese curds are a sacred food. Mozzarella sticks are for boring plebians.”

Taavi popped the curd in his mouth, then looked pleasantly surprised. “They’re good.”

“Beer battered are better,” I replied. “There’s a hierarchy of cheese curds.”

“Hierarchy?”

“Mmhmm. First breaded, then herbed and breaded, then battered, then beer-battered.” I snatched one and ate it. “Separate hierarchy from the squeaky ones.”

Taavi stared at me, stopping with an onion ring halfway to his mouth. “Squeaky?”

I nodded, eating a fry dipped in honey mustard. Don’t judge. I like fries with lots of things—honey mustard, ranch, mayo, barbeque sauce. Ketchup is fine and all, but there’s a whole world of sauces to dip fries in. Why limit yourself?

“When they’re fresh, they squeak when you chew them.”

Taavi looked baffled. “Cheese curds? Like… in a bowl?”

I couldn’t help the smile that flitted across my lips. I waggled a fry at him before putting it in my mouth. “A common novice assumption,” I informed him. “That’scurds and whey, and, unlike Miss Muffet, we donoteat that. Cheese curds are what you get when you keep stirring and the curds form larger lumps.” I picked up a cheese curd. “Once they’re the perfect size, then they are put into a little plastic bag so that people like you and me can enjoy their squeaky goodness. I promise I’ll get you some good ones before we go back home.”

His lips twitched, although he didn’t actually smile. I missed his smile. I hadn’t seen it much in the last few weeks.

We finished our greasy, delicious classic Wisconsin dinner, and Taavi left me to flick through the cable channels while he took a shower.

He left the door open, so when he got out of the shower, I could see his lean, lithe body reflected in the mirror over the hotel desk. His wet hair hung down to his jawline, drops gathering and dropping onto his skin. My mouth went dry, and I wanted nothing more than to lick the droplets off his skin. And not because I was thirsty. Not for water, anyway.

But I wasn’t sure if Taavi was in the mood for where my thoughts were going, so I waited. And watched.

I watched as he brushed his hair, the muscles of his arms flexing and lengthening as he ran the brush over his hair, more water droplets spattering off the end of its length. He tended to lean on his right leg—the side he hadn’t broken—and he was doing so now, his hip cocked a little.

I could see the line of the scar on his left side from where Dr. Zhou had removed the drug dispenser the Brachiofortis assholes had put inside him. The line—that would lighten with time—ran just under the bottom curve of his circular Maya tattoo, the dark lines and symbols marking his skin representing important things about him—his date of birth, his parents, where their family was from in Southern Mexico, and, at the top, a Xolo dog. At the center of the circle was a Yaxche, the Maya tree of life.

I knew every inch of that tattoo. Knew where there were still spaces in the outer circle to fill in more of his life. Knew what each of the symbols meant, the stories that went with them. I knew the faint difference between the inked skin and his natural skin under my fingertips and my tongue.

I flexed those same fingers, wanting to feel that skin under my hands.

I blew out a long breath, trying to tell myself to get my dick under control. I tried to focus on the television, but within a few seconds my eyes were drawn back to the lines of Taavi’s back and shoulders, the curve of his ass, the muscle of his thigh, his slightly bent left leg blocking the view of some of my favorite parts.

I shifted on the bed, my pants tighter and less comfortable than they had been a few minutes before.

“Val?”

My heart sped up, and I looked back at the mirror. Taavi wasn’t looking at me in it, still looking in the bathroom mirror, tying his hair back.

I cleared my throat a little, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Yeah?”

Taavi’s mismatched eyes flickered over to the mirror, meeting mine. I swallowed.

Then he turned, giving me a full view of his body.

I sucked in a breath, my heart pounding in my chest as I watched him walk toward the mirror, my gaze flicking away from the mirror as he turned the corner and I could look directly at him instead of his reflection.

He didn’t say anything, just slowly crossed the room, coming over to the bed. His skin was still slightly damp, a few drips still running down his chest from his hair, and the cool air in the room peaked the darker skin of his nipples and raised the faint, downy hair on his arms.

His eyes flicked down my body—still fully clothed—and I could feel myself reacting to his gaze.