He grabs for the last cart in the lot and begins pushing them toward the door in one long line, his eyes down at the wheels. I take this opportunity to move to the door with my back to him. I don’t need him to know I was watching…that I was…noticing him.

“That door’s locked,” he yells. I turn quickly, and his eyes are still fixed at the wheels of the carts.

“Why?” I ask. That’s a stupid response.

He smirks, and his lip makes that small quirk it does when he looks at me from the other side of the counter—the dimple in his cheek the only sign he’s laughing at me. He’s still far enough away that I could just turn to leave, and he wouldn’t be able to catch up to me—unless he ran. He wouldn’t run after me, would he?

I busy myself with these thoughts for a few seconds and lose my window. I’m kind of glad about that, though, because Houston might be my only friend.

“It’s just me and Sheila right now. When she’s in there alone, I keep one side locked. I don’t like her being alone, even if it is during the day,” he says, squinting a little from the sun shining on his face. I can tell from the cut on his lip and the bruising under his right eye that Carson took some good swings at him. I know it’s not my fault, but I still sort of feel like it is. And now that he said that chivalrous crap about not wanting to leave Sheila-whoever inside alone, I feel worse.

“Does it hurt?” I nod at him, knowing after last night, I could probably point to anything on his body and find a bruise. He takes a quick breath in, inhaling a short laugh.

“It hurts like hell,” he chuckles, pushing the carts through the door with a small grunt of force.

Houston is not like Carson at all. I haven’t seen Carson, and I probably won’t, but I can almost guarantee he’s not admitting to any pain for the marks Houston left behind. I notice the bruising on his knuckles as his hands wrap around the carts. I also notice the flexing of his forearms, and the way the blue-and-red plaid shirt he’s wearing is rolled up to his elbows, the bottom untucked. Now that I’m looking at the bottom of his shirt, I can’t help but also take in his faded jeans that hug his hips but slouch just enough so I see the top of his boxers when he turns and pulls, his muscles working and his body hard to ignore.

When he stops moving, I look up. He’s smiling at me, his lips pushed together tightly and his eyebrows raised.

“Did you need something?” he asks.

“Oh…no. I was just out walking, was going to study, but didn’t feel like the library. I sort of ended up here,” I say, my mouth jumbling the words because I’m literally thinking of them milliseconds before they come out. I sound pathetic.

Houston keeps his eyes on me for a few seconds, his smile still sweet. His face has stubble on it, probably because he didn’t have much time to shave this morning. He’s wearing a hat. He looks good in hats.

“You want a breakfast burrito? I make a killer burrito. Come on,” he says, urging me over to the deli counter. He jogs around a swinging door to the other side, leaping over a few crates on the floor. Still skipping.

“Aren’t those super bad for you?” I ask.

“Uh, well…I guess that depends,” he says, pulling out two tortillas and reaching into a warming drawer for a bin of something that I think is eggs.

“Are those…eggs?” I can’t help but twist my face looking at a bin that’s filled with yellow, buttery…ugh, I don’t know.

Houston lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “Eggs are full of protein, and I just made these, maybe ten minutes ago. They’re still fresh. Just do me a favor,” he leaves his sentence there, his eyes coming up to meet mine while his hands work on the counter, scooping peppers and onions and some sort of meat-something into the tortilla.

“What favor?” I ask, and I know that I’m still making the face. Whatever he’s making—it looks awful.

“Don’t overthink my food. Just eat it,” he says, pulling the tortilla tight, wrapping the bottom in wax paper, and handing it to me over the counter. His hand covers mine during the exchange, and I notice. It’s not like fireworks or magic or heat…well, maybe some heat. But…I notice.

“I don’t know,” I say, looking at the most fattening thing I’ve eaten in probably two years.

“It has less calories than that pink drink you were sipping on last night,” he says, and I look up at him, getting a good look at the deep purple around his eye.

“Fine,” I breathe, opening my mouth and taking a small bite of egg, cheese, and tortilla. I reach to hand it back to him immediately, but he pushes my hands back to me. He touches me again. I notice.