He’s doing his best to be quiet, the sun just now peaking over the horizon. It’s been that strange kind of twilight for an hour. I kind of like the way the light painted everything purple—it felt like we were in one of those stories where time stops. We’re nearly to the door when the handle on his cooler breaks off, sending the plastic container bouncing down the walkway and into the grass.

“You are really bad at being sneaky,” I whisper, laughing at him. He shrugs, then we both look up when his mom is standing at the back door, propping it open for us.

“We…uh…lost track of time?” he says, his lips working hard not to let out the laugh he’s holding inside from getting caught.

“Yeah, yeah. Get inside,” she says, waving us in. I can’t make eye contact with her. As much as I’m eighteen, and Houston and I are adults—I’m embarrassed knowing that she probably knows why we’re late.

“Leah up yet?” he asks, looking up the stairs.

“No, not yet. You caught a break. That early-riser of yours slept in for once on a Saturday,” Joyce says, her hand on her hip, her coffee mug in the other. “What time is this baseball game you’re going to?”

“It’s not until two I think,” Houston says, glancing at me, his lips curling, making that small dimple. We were less shy in the twilight.

“Okay, good. I’m working the church rummage sale until noon, then I’ll be back. You can handle making breakfast,” she says. Houston opens his mouth to talk behind her, his brow pinched, but he shuts it quickly.

“Sounds good,” is all he says instead.

Joyce retreats upstairs to change, and Houston and I both collapse on the dining room chairs, our lack of sleep catching up with us.

“I was kind of thinking I’d take a nap. I forgot about her rummage-sale thing,” he says, rubbing his tired eyes and yawning. It makes me yawn, too, but I know I’m not as tired as he is.

“How about I handle breakfast, and you shower and take a nap?” I suggest. His eyes lock on mine for a few seconds, his head falling to the side while he looks at me. His attention starts to make me uncomfortable. “What?” I finally ask, standing and moving to the kitchen to get out from his stare. I sort through a few cabinets until I find the pancake mix. I used to make pancakes for Cass and me all the time; I’m sure I can remember.

Before I turn around, I feel Houston’s hands slide through my arms and around me, bringing me into him, his mouth hot on my neck, my knees instantly weak. “You’re pretty phenomenal, you know,” he says. My brow pinches as I look at my hands.

“I don’t know about that,” I say. He spins me to face him, his hands on my hips, his face close. He needs to shave. I also hope he doesn’t. He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose then rests his head on mine, rolling from side to side.

“You used to know you were phenomenal. I could tell by the way you walked. I don’t know who made you forget, but let me remind you,” he says, tipping my chin up, his lips brushing against mine with his final words. “You are quite phenomenal.” His kiss is the perfect punctuation mark, an exclamation point—the deepness of it as his mouth slowly works mine, his tongue invading my mouth, his fingers soft against my cheeks. I love that I have to look up to kiss him. And I love that he thinks I’m…I’m…phenomenal?

He pulls away, leaving me breathless, then steps back slowly, his grin growing with every inch he moves away. “Now get in there and make me breakfast, woman!” he says, winking. Without hesitation, I dip the spoon in the powder mix and fling it at Houston, dusting his black sweater with a stripe of white.

“No, no,” I say. “We don’t even make jokes like that.”

He bites his lip through his smile and looks down at his soiled sweater, then shakes his head before looking back up to me. My lips are still pursed, though I’m mostly kidding. “See?” he says, his eyes starting at mine, then drawing a slow, affectionate line down the center of my body to the hand holding the spoon. “Phenomenal,” he says, meeting my eyes one more time before turning to the stairs.

“What happened here?” his mom asks, meeting him at the bottom step as they pass. She’s pulling at the center of his sweater. I turn around and begin pouring ingredients in my bowl.

“Houston said something sexist,” I say, adding water and stirring.

“Oh, well then lucky she didn’t hit you,” she says, and I smile, hearing him chuckle. It’s a stupid little thing, but I like that his mom is proud of me for it.