#the bad veg is the worst of the fridge it seems- everything else is either sealed in a jar or unopened packaging

[rextrinsic]

just came back to my dad's after staying at my gf's for a couple weeks and oh my god the kitchen is eurck

surfaces weren't catasrophic but i could tell i was the last person to broom/mop/wipe down the counters so i did that while warming myself up to scrounge up smth for lunch..

then i investigate the fridge- i'd already seen the molding carrots and limp lettuce which ok has happened before but then i check the vegatable draw and hmmm hmm hmm moldy bell peppers marinating in liquid cucumber :((

[rivers-rambles21]

The one where you’re both idiots

Part 8 of The one where Bucky has a cute neigbour series!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader (f)

Summary | Reader and Bucky become friends after he saves her from  a creep in their apartment building. Each chapter explores a different  point in their friendship - very slow burn!

Warnings | 18+ only, Smut in later chapters (this is a slow burn), swearing, unprotected sex, oral sex, (later chapters)

This is my favourite chapter so far as we’ll start seeing the events of The Falcon and The Winter Soldier impact the story more.

Chapter 8 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 1 | Masterlist

“How was your session with the world’s worst therapist?” You asked as you started unpacking your groceries. You’d run into Bucky on your way home from picking up a few things for your evening meal and had invited him inside with the offer of a home cooked meal. 

Taking the milk from you, he helped put your items away as he pondered his response. “Same as always, she asks about the nightmares, I lie to her and she starts writing on that damned notepad.” Taking a tomato from the bag, he snuck one into his mouth and put the rest away, giving him a second to think before continuing. He’d been at your apartment that many times by now he knew where everything lived.

Hoisting himself up onto the kitchen countertop, he sat in his usual spot as he watched you busy around, pulling your utensils out ready to cook. “She also brought up how alone I am.” Despite his efforts, his voice broke slightly, something that you didn’t fail to notice. 

“Well that’s a load of bull” You scoffed as you turned to face him, opening your arms wide. “You’ve got me!” 

He smiled back at you, his face lightening up. “That I do doll, that I do.” 

Satisfied, you turned your back on him once again and began washing the vegetables. 

“I had lunch with Yori,” He continued.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah...  I’ve also got a… got a date tomorrow” Your hands froze as you felt your heart break, your stomach twisting into knots. A second later you composed yourself and continued with the task at hand, rubbing your hands over the mushrooms repeatedly. 

“Oh.” You remarked, not trusting your voice to say anything further. 

“Yeah, Yori kind of set it up. I tried to explain there was a bit of a dance to this sort of thing but he went ahead with it anyway.” Bucky had missed your reaction when he’d told you about the date and proceeded to pick up one of your kitchen knives, twirling it between his fingers as a distraction. 

Those seconds were all you needed to compose yourself as you shut off the water and began chopping the veg up, mentally preparing your response in your head. “Well it’s good to get out there, when was the last time you had a date?” 

“1942 Stark Expo” He replied with no hesitation. You turned on your heel and gestured towards the cupboard above Bucky's head. With a smile, instead of moving aside, he spread his legs for you to step into. For a second, his smile made you forget what he’d just told you and you were back to it just being you and him, no mystery woman who you feared would take him from you. 

“Lazy shit.” You muttered as you stepped between his open legs swinging the cupboard door open and reaching up for a can. 

For Bucky, he was enjoying the view. Your top had risen and he had a perfect view of your stomach, begging to be kissed. 

As you placed the can on the counter beside him and searched for the opener something suddenly dawned on you. “Does that mean you’ve not gotten laid since 1942?” Your eyes met his and he chuckled in response. 

Picking up the can, he jabbed his knife into it and expertly cut into the lid, opening it with ease. Handing it back to you he shot you another smile. 

“Believe it or not, courting women in the 1940’s was a bit different. Girls didn’t fuck outside of marriage as they do now, and if they did it was a rarity. But, that didn’t mean both of you couldn’t get off if you put other things to use.” He smirked back at you as your jaw dropped, mouth hanging open at his honesty. Not quite knowing what to do with that information you turned back to the stove, your cheeks flushed from not just the heat. 

“Well… I’m sure your date tomorrow will be a welcome relief.” 

“Eh… She's a nice girl and all but I don’t see it going anywhere. Beer?” 

“Oh, um yes please.” A few moments later you heard your fridge open and close and the sound of bottle lids going into the trash. Leaving your beer to the side, he resumed his previous position and continued watching you cook. 

“When was the last time you saw any action?” Bucky wasn’t sure why he asked in all honesty, he’d rather not know as just picturing you with anyone else drove him mad. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You laughed. “No but seriously I think it’s been two years now?” Taking a swig of your beer you leant against the counter and faced him. “Oh god, it’s been seven. I forgot about the blip. Holy shit.” Grabbing your beer again, you took a few more gulps, enjoying the liquid running down your throat. 

Despite not really wanting to know the answer, Bucky found himself slightly pleased you’d not been with anyone in a while for purely selfish reasons. 

The rest of the evening was spent eating good food and watching TV, something which Bucky didn’t take for granted. He’d only told his therapist part of the truth. When he was alone with you, enjoying each other's company, talking about nothing and everything, he felt calm - content. 

The following day Bucky didn't hear from Y/N at all and his date went as he expected. The girl was nice, charming even but he didn’t feel a connection. He felt bad for lying about his gloves and even worse when she brushed off his comment around his age. Yori was the last straw and he had to get out of there. The guilt was overwhelming, suffocating and heavy. He’d rushed over to Yori’s place with the intention of confessing his sins but something held him back. It wasn’t the first time he’d hesitated, something about him just made him stop every time. Maybe it was the fact that Yori was a friend, someone who seemed to understand his odd quirks, put up with his grumpiness and still wanted to be around him. Then again, maybe he only did that as he got a free meal out of it.

He found himself back at his apartment building, banging on Y/N’s door, praying you were home. But he was met with silence.

He spent the rest of the night watching TV, drinking as many beers as he could before he eventually passed out, either out of boredom or tiredness, the mental battering he’d taken finally taking its toll. 

It wasn’t until the following evening he finally saw you. The sound of bags dropping to the floor as you muttered explicits under your breath whilst searching for your keys was undeniably you. 

Without a second thought, he opened his door, eager to see you. 

“Hey doll”

Turning your heel, you faced him. “Oh hey Buck”

“Lost your key again?” He remarked, smirking. 

“As usual” You muttered, finally finding them amongst the junk in your purse. 

“I was worried about you y’know.” Your head snapped up, eyes meeting his piercing blues as he stared back at you. “You didn’t come home last night, it’s not very…. You. Who is he?”

A laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “She is called Lauri and I just ended up staying over.” You tried to make yourself sound as convincing as possible, knowing deep down you hadn’t wanted to overhear any late night activities if his date had in fact gone well.

“Oh. Oh!” His eyes went wide when he thought he’d realised something but couldn’t have been further from the truth. “Well, I hope she’s treating you right.” 

And he truly meant it. Despite pining after you these past few months, your happiness was his priority, regardless of how desperately he wanted to be the one fulfilling that for you. 

You slowly opened your door with your back to him, trying to suppress a grin. “Way off the mark there Buck, although I’m pretty sure she would show me a great time, it’s not like that. We’re just friends.” 

The small sigh of relief that left his lips as he processed what you said, making you pause for a moment. Surely he wasn’t happy that you - ? No, impossible. 

“Fair enough.” He replied, coughing to hide a slight choke. 

“Do you want to come in?” You asked, opening your door wide for him to enter. With a gentle smile he nodded, closing his own door behind him he walked into your apartment. You tried your best to not notice the way his t-shirt hugged his body in all the best ways, tightening around his broad shoulders before delving down to his biceps, the metal of his arm reflecting the light from the hallway. You said a silent prayer before following him in, urging your eyes to stop flitting back to his body and the way his jeans fitted around his tight- no Y/N, no. 

You followed him further into your small apartment as he settled on the couch whilst you put your bag into your bedroom. Pulling the door, you gave yourself some privacy as you pulled some loungewear from your drawers before sliding your top off over your head. “How did your date go?” You asked. You’d prepared it over and over again in your head, testing your tone and delivery to avoid him picking up on the nervousness you felt asking the question. 

“Disaster, I let half way through.” 

Your eyes unintentionally lit up as you unfastened your bra, throwing it into the laundry basket in the corner of your room. “Jesus Buck, what did she do?”

You heard a shuffle coming from your living room, Bucky no doubt playing with the thread coming off your couch as he usually did when he was deep in thought. “It just didn’t feel natural y’know? I wasn’t comfortable with her, I couldn’t be myself, and then she brought up Yori and I-” He couldn’t quite finish his sentence and grunted as he struggled to find the words. Not needing to hear any more, you finished getting changed into your clothes and went back into the living room, plonking yourself down next to him. 

“Well first off, not cool leaving half way through. But… this is New York so I'm pretty sure she’ll have been on worse dates.” You joked, trying to lighten the mood. Bringing your sock clad feet up onto the couch, you stretched your leg out and prodded the man beside you, prompting him to turn and face you. “You’ll tell him whenever you’re ready. For now though, focus on the positive. You went on a date with a girl…. Regardless of how short said date was” You covered your mouth as you giggled, his eyes rollg only forcing more laughs from you. Taking enough of your teasing, Bucky took action and tossed one of your many cushions towards you, landing squarely in your face knocking you back.

“Dick!” you squealed.

“Brat”

[builder051]

Mike & Co Introductory Story (OC sickfic)

Alright, here’s the intro story for Mike, Jason, and Colby (well, it’s a story about Mike, with cameos from Jason and Colby).  It’s the only story I have planned for them so far, so once you read this, feel free to send requests for any/all of these guys.

Trigger warnings: a little bit of eating disorder thought process, but no descriptions of ED behaviors.  Also a little disrespect for the field of ED therapy.  I don’t hate all therapy.  I’ve just had a bad experience with that kind of therapy.

Mike sits heavily down on the picnic bench and unzips her blue insulated lunchbox.  She has no idea what to expect; Colby had shuffled around the kitchen and then thrown the thing at her after she’d threatened to leave without it.  The others around the table—Mike isn’t sure how to think of them.  Clients?  Patients?  Other among the sick, weak, and damned?—sheepishly unload their packed dinners and surreptitiously glance around at what everyone else is either trying or pretending to eat tonight.

Mike joins in and dumps out a host of ominously heavy items.  There’s a Tupperware of something salad-looking, a glass bottle of kombucha, a baggie of brownish clusters resembling granola cereal, a peach, and a banana bread muffin wrapped in a paper towel.  She organizes the individual parts of her meal across her placemat and realizes with a pang of guilt that it’s probably what Colby intended to eat for tomorrow’s lunch.  Now wasted on her.  Mike’s even less inclined to tuck in.

She gets up from the table both to buy a little time and search down some flatware since Colby neglected to give her any.  The journey across the covered patio and into the home-style kitchen is quick, but conspicuous.  Mike’s barely back in her seat when one of the nutritionists, Krista, brightly asks, “What’cha got there, Michaela?  Looks different from your usual.”

Mike shrugs.  She pulls the top off the Tupperware and reveals a mess of greens topped with what looks like a whole avocado and two or three fistfuls of sunflower seeds. Although she knows the monounsaturated fats in the dish are actually quite beneficial to her overall health, the sheer number of calories within the clear plastic dish seems staggering.  But then again, it was meant for a 6’2” teenaged man.  Not for her.

Krista won’t stop looking at her, so Mike digs her plastic fork into the center of the salad and jams a wad of veg into her mouth.  She takes her time chewing, tasting the bitter greens and creamy avocado and nutty sweetness of the seeds.  She thinks for a second that she understands why Colby prefers these kinds of meals.  It tastes a hell of a lot better than the false chemical sweetness of, say, pop tarts.  But that fucking fat content…

When the allotted dinner hour is up, Mike waits in line.  The mandatory after-dinner private conference with Krista or Deb or one of the other heartless fools who run the outpatient therapy program has to be the worst part of the 4-hour-a-day, 3-day-a-week torture.  A degree in nutrition or psychology isn’t enough to give anyone the right to glance across a table and decide whether an independent, free thinking person should be forced to consume even more calories of dairy-based high-sugar “nutritional” drink.

Mike plays with the zipper on her lunchbox, hoping she won’t have to open it and talk through its remaining contents.  She’d made a decent attempt on everything, but finished nothing.  But she feels full.  She almost feels overfull.  Mike wishes she could go to the bathroom.  She’s learned by now that when the digestive system’s been underused or forced to work in reverse for an extended period of time, it goes into the mode of something like a tiny, sick kitten.  Indigestion just follows eating, and sometimes going to sit on the toilet or just stand around in the bathroom— and decidedly not purge—are necessary measures to deal with impending stomach pains.  But that’s not allowed in the fucking therapy program.  Apparently letting grown adults use the toilet on their own whims is too much of a risk.  So it leaves Mike feeling like, well, like shit.  

“Michaela, you’re up.”  Deb lets the previous girl out of her office and beckons to Mike.

Mike tries not to roll her eyes as she steps into the overly cheerful office with its yellow walls and daisy-centric décor.  Deb is decidedly Mike’s least favorite staff member, and unfortunately, she’s the highest ranking.  She’s a businesswoman, owns the therapy program, and despite not having the proper credentials, gets to tell everyone else what to do and where to go.

“Alright, what did we have tonight?”  Deb’s supremely annoying in way she addresses Mike in the plural.  Like she’s a pair of twin toddlers or something.  “I think I saw some salad across the dinner table.  You know that’s not part of your nutrition plan.”

Ah, yes, the nutrition plan, Mike thinks.  The fucking spreadsheet that seems to place human beings as creatures that consume only macronutrients.  “It wasn’t really a salad.  It was a lot of nuts and avocado,” Mike defends.

“That’s still deficient in protein and carbs,” Deb says back with an overbearing, almost sarcastic patience.

“Plus fruit.  And cereal.  And banana bread,” Mike lists monotonously.

“Nutritionally, that’s not enough.”  Deb scratches her flower-topped pen across a notepad, probably writing something scathing for Mike’s file.

“It was my brother’s boyfriend’s packed lunch,” Mike says, letting her forehead wrinkle into her expression of distaste.  “Some people have a muffin or a cup of cereal for their whole meal.”

“You need to stick to your nutrition plan to normalize your eating habits.”

“Normal people eat what I ate.”  Mike crosses her arms.  Colby probably won’t appreciate being glumped together with everyone else on the planet, but to Mike, his calmness and ability to go with the flow places him distinctly opposed to her on the scale of anxiety.  He’s as decidedly normal as Mike’s not.

“Michaela, I know you don’t like to hear this,” Deb says with a sigh.  She opens the mini fridge behind her desk and pulls out a bottle of nutrition shake.  “A muffin or a cup of cereal isn’t enough to keep a person going.  We need to focus on eating the right things in the right quantity to actually meet your needs.”

“So you’re saying everyone is nutritionally deficient?” Mike snaps.

Deb uncaps the shake and pours out 8 ounces into a marked glass.  She pushes it across the desk toward Mike.  “Here.”

“Can you answer my question?”

“Please drink it,” Deb says, false patience thick in her voice.

“Fucking answer it.”

“Michaela.”

Mike’s stomach cramps a little under her folded arms.  “No, I…it makes my stomach hurt.  My stomach already hurts.”

“Your parents enrolled you in this program because they want to help you get better,” Deb says.  “You owe it to them, and you owe it to yourself.  Let’s lose the excuses.”

Mike tentatively wraps her hand around the glass, trying to crush it with her minimal grip strength.  She almost laughs and shakes her head.  “No, my parents enrolled me because they couldn’t be bothered to drive 2 hours out of the way to come visit, and they didn’t want to impose on my hardworking brother and ask him to babysit me.”

“That’s not true.  Your parents are very caring people.”

“You’ve never met my parents.  Just talked to them on the phone,” Mike snorts.

“Do you want to drink that and get back to the group session?” Deb asks, the false cheerfulness starting to wane.

“You wanna answer my question?” Mike reminds her.

“Michaela,” Deb says firmly.  It’s that tone of voice, the kind that clearly betrays a desire for the other person to submit and obey because it’s somehow the right thing to do.  It’s the way Mike’s mother speaks to her.  The way teachers talk to students, the way people order around their dogs and horses when they’re forcing them to do something.

Mike lifts the glass.  She’s already nauseated before it’s to her lips.  She manages to chug down a sip of the blatantly artificial tasting vanilla beverage before everything comes screeching to a halt.  Mike presses her sleeve to her mouth to keep from belching the milky fluid back up.  She’s 20 years old.  She doesn’t have to be here.  Her parents will only lose money if she leaves.  “I can’t,” she chokes out.

“You need to finish that.”  Deb says it firmly, but then her saccharine smile is back.  “You don’t have to take it all at once.  I can get you some water.  We can stay in here for a while.”

“No.”  Mike gets on her feet.  “No.  I can’t do this anymore.  Any of this.”  She swallows the sour-tinged vanilla taste at the back of her throat.  Her fist closes around the strap of her lunchbox.  Mike towers over Deb, who’s still seated behind the desk.  “You’re a liar and a fraud.  You are the opposite of helpful.  Fuck you.”  She’s shaking with combined lightheadedness and anger.

“Michaela—”

Mike doesn’t hear her finish.  She’s already out of the office and down the hall.

Her car’s parked on the street half a block down from the therapy program’s house-like building.  Mike jumps in it and starts low-key speeding down the street before she realizes she’s about to fall apart.  She just had a confrontation with someone.  She cussed someone out.  She was a total dick to Deb and that feels…amazing?

Mike’s hands are shaking and sweat-slick on the steering wheel.  Her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest.  There’s a throbby ache behind her forehead that’s starting to push her vision into sparkles around the sides.  She needs to calm down.  She needs to breathe.

It’s a 15-minute drive back to the apartment.  Mike’s stomach twists, sending a tendril of hot nausea up her back to erupt in prickles around her neck and jawline.  She has to make it home.

But her breath’s not coming evenly.  Each choppy inhale is shorter than the last, and after a few moments she’s almost gasping.  Mike rolls down the window to invite the fall breeze into her Rav-4.  When she looks up to the view through the windshield, her eyeballs feel foggy.  There’s a siren behind her, and it sends disorienting flashes of red and blue into the car.  Mike tries to pull over, but before she’s sure what’s happened, she’s sideswiped a half-dozen orange barrels and jammed her tire into the curb.

Mike lowers her forehead to the steering wheel, trying to comprehend what she’s gotten herself into while also swallowing the urge to be sick.

“Hello ma’am.  Have you had anything to drink this evening?”  The officer’s standing beside the already-open driver-side window.

“No, I…” Mike says.  There’s entirely too much spit in her mouth.  The still-flashing police lights are giving a strobe effect that isn’t helping with her ability to ground herself in time and space.  She swallows thickly.  “I just—”  The words are lost in a gag that Mike tries to obscure with a hand clapped over her mouth.

“Ma’am?”  The officer yanks the car door open and frees Mike from her seatbelt so she can lean out.  Mike retches, and a spray of whitish fluid hits the asphalt.

“Oh fuck,” Mike chokes.  “I’m sorry.”  She heaves again and brings up more.

“Ok, breathe.  Try to calm down,” the officer instructs.  “You ok?  Just not feeling so hot?”

Mike takes a hitchy breath.  “God.  Yeah, I—” another heave forces its way up her throat, and a weak stream of bile leaves her coughing.

“Alright,” the cop says.

“’M not drunk,” Mike mumbles when she finally has enough breath.

“Yeah, I know.  You don’t smell like alcohol.”  The officer scratches his head.  “You seem pretty sick.  Do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

“No,” Mike whispers.  “I’m ok.”

“You sure you don’t need medical attention?”

“Yeah.”  Mike coughs and wipes her mouth on her sleeve.  “I just…need to go home.”

“I don’t think you should drive right now,” the officer says.

“Huh?”

“I don’t think you hurt your car or anything, but you’re not in good shape to operate your vehicle.”

Oh.  Yeah.  The construction barrels.  It already feels like ages ago.

“Do you have someone to call?” The officer asks.  “I could give you a ride home, but we’d have to tow your car.”

“I don’t know…”  Just the thought of asking for help is turning her stomach again.

“Or I could call paramedics.”

“God, no,” Mike murmurs.    “I, uh, I can call my brother…”  It’s about the last thing Mike wants to do.  She digs her phone out of her back pocket and stares at the lock screen for a moment before clicking back into action.  She fumbles her trembling fingers and selects the contact for Jason.  She lets out an anticipatory sigh as she holds the phone to her ear and listens to it start to ring.

“Yo,” Jason’s deep voice answers.

Mike clears her throat.  “I, uh…”  How is she going to explain this?

“You’re supposed to be in your group until 8, right?” Jason asks.

“Um, I, uh, had to leave,” Mike explains.  She’ll tell him about walking out later.  Maybe.  “I started feeling really sick, and I, uh, started driving home, but…Can you come get me?”  Her heart is a stone plummeting down through her body into the car seat.

“What?”

“I got pulled over.”  The admission’s bringing back the prickly nausea.  “I got sick.”

“Why?”  Jason sounds tired.

“I don’t know.  I was swerving or something.”

“No, Mike.  Geez.  Why?”  He’s not asking why she got pulled over.  It’s another thing Mike’s learned the hard way.  Once someone learns that she has one of those eating disorders, it’s like she’s not allowed to be sick for any other reason.

“I—It wasn’t on purpose.  I’m fine.  I just got nauseous.  I’m fine.  I…” Mike’s about to gag.  “Will you and Colby come get me so the cops don’t tow my fucking car?”  She holds the speaker into her chest while she leans over to let out a wet, belchy cough that doesn’t bring up anything.  She’s almost glad her body’s deciding to rebel so she has something to focus on besides the shame of being week and needy.

Jason’s mid-sentence when she gets the phone back to her ear.  “…on our way.  Just, like, chill for a little bit.  You’re probably all wound up.”

“Thanks,” Mike mutters.  She hangs up, then leans back in the seat and closes her eyes.

“You’ve got him on the way?” the cop asks.

Mike nods.  She realizes she stupidly didn’t tell Jason where she is, but she assumes he’ll just start driving toward the therapy center and find her pretty quickly.

She sits in awkward silence with the cop leaning against the car frame for a while.  He asks once or twice if she’s ok, but stays mercifully quiet when Mike just nods and slumps sideways into the velour seat.  Eventually she recognizes Jason’s black sedan as it pulls into a parking lot across the street.  He jumps out, all pale legs in seasonally inappropriate basketball shorts, and dashes across the deserted road.  Colby’s on his heels, looking like an overgrown loyal dog.

“Hey, thanks for looking out for her,” Jason says to the officer.  He looks at Mike, and she can almost see his hardheartedness melting away.  She must have no color.

“Alright, you look like trash,” Jason says by way of greeting.  “I’ll get you home.”

The officer wishes them well and takes his leave.  Mike feels like she can finally think a little once the flashing lights are out of her visual field.

“You wanna jump in the other side?”  Jason asks, gesturing for Mike to vacate the driver’s seat.

She steps down unsteadily, avoiding the splash of vomit just outside the door.  She doesn’t look forward to being stuck in the car with her brother.  Mike can practically see Jason’s thought bubble.  He’ll ask a lot of questions.  Want to know what happened.  Mike’s having a hard enough time reconciling it for herself, and she doesn’t anticipate her brother having a great understanding of the way certain foods and emotions tend to turn her sensitive stomach.

“You know, why don’t I drive this one?” Colby offers as Jason’s about to hop into the seat Mike just left.  “You’re car’s too small for long legs.”  It’s not a great excuse since Colby only has a couple inches on Jason.  He meets eyes with Mike and raises his blonde eyebrows.

“Yeah, sure,” Jason sighs.  There’s no way he doesn’t know what’s up, but he has the grace to pretend to be oblivious.  “See you back home.”  He crosses back to his own car.

Colby deftly climbs into the Rav-4.  “You know he’s pissed cause he cares,” he says to Mike, who has her temple pressed against the passenger window.

“Yeah,” she says.  “Just…feel like I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

“I’ll save the lecture, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mike repeats.

Colby stays silent for a while.  Then he asks, “Was it the food I packed?  That made you not feel good?”

“I don’t think so,” Mike murmurs.  “I think it was probably…a lot of stuff.”

“Ok.”  Colby knows not to press.  He turns into the parking lot of their apartment complex.

As they’re gliding into a spot, Mike bluntly asks, “Why’d you care about me?”

“Cause you deserve to be cared about?”  It’s less a question than a statement of duh.  “I know you don’t always think so, but it’s true.”

“Huh.”

Colby puts the car in park and removes the keys from the ignition.  “So, if you’re not opposed to my cooking, you wanna maybe join us for breakfast in the morning?  I’ve convinced Jason to let me make him something other than pop tarts.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll think about it,” Mike says.  It’s too early to tell how she’ll be feeling in the morning.  But she really does intend to think about it.