Page 20 of Bad at Love

“Ask.”

“How do you know what the appropriate dryer cycle is?”

"Also a good question. The fabric dictates the drying cycle. Delicates and lightweight fabrics get low heat, and thick materials like towels or jeans go on high heat. You also need to consider shrinkage. Some fabrics, especially cotton, will shrink if you’re not careful, so those go on a lower setting, too. And never forget to check the care labels—they’re there for a reason. We don’t wing it with laundry. Some items are dry-clean only, though I have a feeling you don’t have any of those.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He huffs out a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “So, uh, you going to be mad at me if I have to ask for a refresher on some of these things?”

“Not at all,” I answer. “I appreciate you wanting to learn.”

“This is your house,” he says.

“But you live here too.”

It comes out quickly, without me thinking. And though it is the truth, I’m not sure I quite feel that way. But I don’t want him to feel like he doesn’t live here. Maybe if he feels like this is his house, and is comfortable, he will have more respect for it. It’ll make things easier for me.

“Well, I’ll do my best to respect your wishes. I even put the toilet seat down when I used the bathroom this morning.”

See, he’s learning already.

I put my hand on his arm, giving him a little squeeze. “I really appreciate that.”

He glances down at my hand, where I’m touching him, and I quickly pull away.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask if you were okay with touch.”

His gaze comes back to me and he shrugs. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m good with it. Like it, actually.”

I nod slowly, then gesture toward the hall. I can’t get out of the bathroom without moving by him, and with him not having a shirt, I don’t feel comfortable doing that. His arm was okay to touch, but if I keep thinking about it I’ll have to go wash my hands. Actually, after touching those dirty clothes, I should wash them anyway. So that’s what I do. Then I get to work on making breakfast.

“Did you eat?”

“I did not,” he answers.

“Would you like me to make you breakfast?”

He chuckles. “I don’t know. I may get used to it.”

“Well, I make breakfast every morning, so I don’t mind.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll give you money for the food.”

I nod, then double up on what I’m making. It doesn’t take me long to get it all together and finished. He’s sitting at the table, fiddling with his phone when I put the plate down in front of him.

“On Mondays, we eat omelets.”

He raises a brow and slowly looks up at me. “You have a scheduled menu?”

“Of course I do. Don’t you?”

“Uh… no.” He huffs out another laugh, this one more shocked. “Not at all. Usually I eat breakfast at lunchtime.”

“Then why wouldn’t you just eat lunch?” I cut into my omelet and scoop up the piece. It’s stuffed with onions, peppers, and mushrooms.

“Because I like breakfast food?”

“Then you should wake up and have breakfast at breakfast time. Because what about lunch?”

He looks at me like he’s wondering if I’m joking or not.

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