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I glanced at my phone, debating if I should even acknowledge it and groaned, grabbing the device and opening my messages.

Me: You really have to stop this.

Emir: Stop what?

Me: Feeding me.

Emir: Your ass stays busy. I’m just making sure you don’t pass out at work.

I was already reaching for a fry.

Me: I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.

Emir: Nah, you be slacking. Bet you were about to eat a dry ass granola bar or bag of chips and call that shit lunch.

…He wasn’t wrong.

I sighed, taking a bite of a wing, annoyed at how satisfying it was.

Me: Still food and I would have been fine. You don’t have to feed me.

Emir: I know.

I stared at the message, the simplicity of it. No justification or explanation.

I chewed my bottom lip, not sure how to respond, but before I could type anything, another message came through.

Emir: You ain’t typing. That mean you’re enjoying it?

Me: It’s alright.

Emir: Your ass is throwing down. Greasy lips and everything.

I laughed and almost choked on a fry.

Me: Fine. It’s good. Happy?

Emir: Getting there...

I paused with my fingers hovering over my phone. There was something about the way he always let things linger.

Me: You love pushing until you get what you want…

Emir: Always.

I sighed, tossing my phone onto my desk and focusing on my food, but it vibrated with another text.

Emir: I gotta go. Need to focus and you’re distracting the hell out of me.

My stomach twisted in excitement of being his distraction. But then tensed from the reality of what I might be distracting him from.Focus. On what?I cringed, not sure I wanted to know the answer but before I could talk myself out of it, I typed out one last response.

Me: Then stop texting me and focus…

Three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.