Page 85 of Felix

“That certain I simply can’t refuse you.”

He flushes at that, a sight that has me feeling smug. It takes Emil a moment to finish his original question. “I was wondering if you’d come to Thanksgiving with me?”

“At your parents’?”

“Yeah. Uh, it’s usually our biggest get-together during the holidays. Immediate family, plus aunts and uncles, cousins.”

I take a slow step toward him. “You want me to meet your family, Specs?”

Emil’s lips lift into a small smile when he sees my own. “Shut up,” he grumbles without heat. “Yes, I do. Would you come? Your grandma would be welcome, too, if you think she could make the trip.”

Emil looks a little startled when I back him down an aisle filled with fabric. He glances over his shoulder, walking backwards until I press him against a few bolts of chiffon. The fabric settles like colorful, billowing clouds on either side of his body. My kinky, angelic nerd.

He doesn’t protest when I bring my lips to his. I’m all too aware of Emil’s own restrictions when it comes to being in public, so I keep it light, and I don’t grind up against him the way I want to. But he still clings to me, hands fisting my shirt, trying to pull me closer.

When I break away from his lips, I lay my cheek against his. “Yes, I’ll go to Thanksgiving with you, Specs. I’ll ask my grandma, too.”

I can feel his smile against my face.

When Emil and I finally make it to the register, I hand over my fabric slip and the other notions I grabbed. “There goes a month’s worth of groceries,” I say quietly.

Emil winces, hand landing on my lower back. It’s a simple touch, but those simple touches from Emil are big. “At least you’ll look gorgeous. I mean, you always look gorgeous, but you know what I mean.”

He rolls his eyes at himself, and I chuckle.

After paying, we head to Emil’s car. Since he already packed some study materials in his bookbag before we left, we head straight over to my place after parking. Emil sprawls out on my bed, getting comfortable like he does at home. He lays a book out in front of himself, powers on his laptop, and pops open a bag of pretzels.

I unload supplies for my skirt while he studies. I have large wooden hangers with clips in my closet, so I hang the embroidered fabric up on one of those to prevent wrinkles. Next, I add the tulle to the pile of fabric on the floor—I really need to get cubbies to organize it all—and then I pick out a length of muslin to draft the skirt pattern.

Emil looks up as I’m spreading the material out on my foldable cutting board. Since it’s a little wrinkled, I plug in my iron.

“What’s that?” Emil asks.

“This fabric? It’s called muslin. It’s a cheap, plain cotton, so it’s good for scrap material.”

He hums, watching me for a moment before going back to his work. I like having him here in my space, even when we’re focused on different things. It feels nice. Comfortable.

Time moves swiftly as I work on patterning my skirt. The shht, shht of my scissors cutting through fabric is a familiar soundtrack amongst the tapping of Emil’s keys. Emil looks up again as I’m standing in front of my mirror, the muslin draped around my waist. There’s a pincushion strapped to my wrist for easy access.

I can practically feel his curiosity.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s just… Isn’t that usually done on a mannequin?”

“A dress form,” I correct. “And yes, but I don’t have one. They’re expensive.”

He makes a soft sound. “Do you ever prick yourself?”

I raise an eyebrow, and Emil shakes his head, lips twitching into a smile.

“You know what I mean,” he mumbles.

“Sometimes I do,” I admit.

Emil shuffles around, sitting upright and leaning against the wall. He sips his energy drink as he watches me work, seemingly taking a break from his own work.

“I saw your scene with Dixon,” I note, shifting a few pins around. “The one you did at the end of last week.”

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