“It’s temporary,” Christopher said a little self-consciously. “I just want to get a year with the shop under my belt to see how it goes before I commit to anywhere else.”

It was the week after Thanksgiving and I was at Christopher’s place for the first time. A first floor one-bedroom in a typical South Philly row house, it looked temporary—just a few pieces of furniture and nothing ornamental—except the kitchen, which appeared to be fully stocked.

“It’s not a bad space, if you decided to stay.”

“Yeah, it’s all right. I’ve moved a lot and it’s the first time I’ve lived alone, so I don’t have that much stuff.”

“The first time?” I followed him into the kitchen because we were purportedly here for him to cook us breakfast, though he’d threatened to make me help.

“Yeah, well, I always had housemates or…” He glanced up at me. “Or, um, lived with people I was dating.”

I pictured him in a hundred different houses, sharing laughing breakfasts with housemates, intimate breakfasts with lovers. Thought about women waking up next to him like I had days before; women getting home from work, tired, and resting a cheek against his shoulder, breathing in his smell.

“So, pretty serious?”

He pulled things from the cabinets and refrigerator and started working at the table set up like a countertop prep station. Now that the weather had turned, he always layered a waffle-knit thermal under his T-shirts. The sleeves were a little short on him and, like his Thanksgiving sweater, the tight fabric hit just above the bones of his wrists, which my eyes were always drawn to. Since when did I find wrists aggressively sexy? Now, he’d pushed his sleeves up over his forearms and I found myself staring at the play of tendon and lean muscle under lightly freckled skin as he began to slice and mix.

“Some of them were,” he said. “Do you want to know?”

“I want to know everything.”

And, oh fuck, it was true. I wanted to know everything about him. I wanted to know about the women he’d lived with because they must have been important to him, because who he cared about that much would mean something. I wanted to know everything he was.

His eyes met mine over the jumble of ingredients. He looked younger for a moment. Startled. “Okay.” He looked down at the food in front of him. “Do you want to help? I can show you how to make this.”

“I can learn by watching.” There was raw chicken on the table and I didn’t want anything to do with it.

“You’re a tattoo artist—don’t you learn by doing?”

“Well, first I learned by doing a shit ton of watching. Then by tattooing on oranges.” I tapped his fruit bowl. “So if you’d like this to mimic that apprenticeship, I’m going to need some different equipment. Do your thing. I want to watch you.”

He flushed over his cheekbones, underneath those slashes of freckles. Gorgeous. I couldn’t get enough of watching him, and he definitely got off on it. I stood and walked to his side, leaning into his shoulder and looking at him.

“What are we having?”

His skin was throwing off heat I could feel through two layers of cotton. “Um. Chicken and waffles. I walked past Federal Donuts yesterday and then last night I dreamed of chicken and waffles and woke up craving it.”

“That sounds good.” I ducked under his arm to stand in front of him, and ran my palms up his chest to his shoulders. He made an abortive movement to touch me, realized his hands were covered in food, and left them on the tabletop. I kissed his flushed cheek.

He started to say something but I kissed him before he could, catching his words with my tongue. His mouth was warm and he tasted a little of coffee. When I pulled back to look at him, he kept his eyes closed and bit his lip as if he could keep me there. I kissed his other cheek and his lips parted, expecting mine.

“You look gorgeous when you cook,” I said. “You get this little line between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating.” I pressed my finger there. “And you look happy.”

“I am happy,” he said softly, eyes fluttering open.

His honesty about how much he liked spending time with me undid me. It made me wish I could be as open.

I sat back down and watched him shift his hips and take deep breaths through his nose as he got his food in order again. He glanced up at me a few times, like he was checking to see if I was watching, and cleared his throat.

“Theresa was my girlfriend in college. We lived together for a few months because her housing stuff fell through. She moved in with me until the lease was up. We broke up a month after she moved in. We weren’t that serious. It was more…timing.”

“You let her keep living there after you guys broke up?”

“Well I wasn’t going to just kick her out.” He looked at me like I’d suggested he drown a puppy.

“Just seems awkward.”

“Nah—well, yeah, it was a little at first, but we got over it. I was working a ton on top of school and she was graduating that year, so we didn’t actually see each other that much.”

He moved confidently, mixing and seasoning and slicing like we were in the kitchen of a fancy restaurant.

“Then I lived with a bunch of different housemates. I dated one for a little while, but that doesn’t really count as living together, since we were…you know, living together.”

I snorted and nodded.

“Jen asked me to move in after we’d been dating for maybe…six months?”

“Six months!”

He looked up. “What?”

“That’s just so fast, I can’t even imagine. Well, I can’t imagine moving in with someone, period.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“I…I’m not sure, I just…I’ve never lived with anyone so I can’t picture what I’d think of it. It seems so…” I shook my head.

“Intimate?”

I nodded and Christopher leaned across the table and kissed me.

“It is.”

I bit my lip.

“Anyway, I was really young when I dated Jen. She was older and I didn’t really know what I was doing in terms of work. In terms of anything. It was like my relationship was the one thing that was working so it made sense to kind of go with it.”

He turned to the stove and when the chicken hit hot oil the smell made my stomach growl loudly. Sitting around smelling delicious food and checking out Christopher’s round ass tightening in well-worn jeans as he cooked wasn’t actually the worst way I could imagine starting my days…

“So what happened? With Jen, I mean.”

“It wasn’t bad. She was great. She taught middle school and ran marathons. Always tried to get me to run with her and then totally smoked me.” He smiled. “But she wanted to be done, you know? She wanted to settle down and have a garden and dinner parties and I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know what I was doing with my life or what I was good at and I couldn’t just stop. We ended things and I left for Croatia to teach.”

“You ran away all the way to Europe, huh?”

His head snapped up. “I didn’t run away.”

“No?”

He bit his lip and shrugged, turned back to the stove. “Maybe just a little. In culinary school, there was Macy. She was sweet, and really funny, and we had a blast. We got a place together, and it was great. But we kind of slid into being friends rather than lovers. I don’t know why. It just kind of happened. And then she met someone else and we broke up so she could be with him. We’re still friends though. She’s awesome.”

I liked that he seemed to have only good things to say about the women he’d had relationships with. And it started to answer a question that had been slowly growing in my mind ever since I’d met him. Was it possible that Christopher seemed so untroubled about romantic relationships simply because he’d had all good experiences? It didn’t seem possible, and yet… There was a kind of youth about him, even in the moments when he was taciturn or serious. Something generous and unharmed that I associated with naïveté, though he was far from naïve.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?” I asked. It sounded dramatic, almost accusatory.

When he looked up, his eyes were sharp, his expression heavy, and he didn’t look away. After an intense beat, he went back to mixing batter and I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“Maybe not in the way you mean,” he said finally. “Not romantically. But, yeah. I have.”

Clearly not open to a follow-up, he turned sharply away and swept around the kitchen, fiddling with the stove, scraping some things together, chopping others. And all the while I tried to figure out what he meant. What did Christopher’s non-romantically broken heart look like?

I was still puzzling over it when he plunked two plates down onto the table I hadn’t noticed him clear.

The golden waffles smelled of vanilla and butter and the chicken was fried to a crispy golden brown. As I watched, Christopher poured on thick maple syrup, topped it with what looked like sugar-crusted pecans, spooned on a thick dot of cream, and sprinkled cinnamon on top. Finally, he scattered fresh mint over the plates and nudged mine slightly toward me, picking up his fork and knife.

“Holy mother love bone,” I swore, and my stomach growled loudly. It was the most beautiful breakfast I’d ever seen.

“Praline chicken and waffles,” he said, cutting into his food.

“I…this…holy shit, Christopher. I don’t even want to touch it, it’s so beautiful.”

His smile was so bright it got me right in the stomach. He reached over and cut a messy line right through the middle of my food.

“Problem solved.”

It was a great day. We had cool clients and Lindsey’s music choices fit the mood perfectly. I was at exactly the right level of caffeination, and I’d gone to Mr. Shao’s for acupuncture before we opened, so my back and hands felt great. Christopher stopped by around dinnertime to drop off a sandwich for me.

Once he’d realized that I seriously did not cook at all, he’d decided it was his mission in life to ensure that I never missed a meal. I could almost hear his mother’s voice echoing in his head, but when I’d teased him about it he’d gotten this adorably shocked look, like it’d never occurred to him.

“Just tell me your favorites, so I know what to make,” he’d said the other day.

“I like lots of stuff,” I’d said. “Mostly I like to see what you decide to bring.”

It was like he was sending me little love notes in the form of sandwiches. I thrilled at opening the bag and seeing what he’d put together for me. Seeing if I could trace his logic from one day to the next. Was he building on things he knew I’d liked from before? Repeating things? Was there a schedule to what days he had what ingredients? It was like my own little romantic mystery that I got to puzzle over every day. And it didn’t hurt that this particular mystery came between slices of bread and was always delicious.

Today he hadn’t been able to stick around to see my reaction to his sandwich choice—he’d had things to do at home—but he’d left me a note on the napkin that explained, Thought I’d go full-on traditional Jewish deli and see if you liked it. <3 C.

I couldn’t tell what it was at first, but when the first creamy bite of salt hit my tongue I knew it immediately. Chopped liver. My grandfather had made it when I was a kid, screwing an ancient metal grinder to his dented butcher block countertop. I’d eaten it in sandwiches and smeared on Ritz crackers. Scooped up with slices of cucumber, and on matzah at Passover. And all the time, I had never known what it was. When my father finally told me, I was disgusted. But my disgust only lasted until my grandparents’ Chanukah party when I saw the trays of toast spread with chopped liver and decided I didn’t give a shit if liver seemed gross because it tasted amazing. My grandfather died when I was ten and I hadn’t eaten it since.

I texted Christopher: You’ve outdone yrself. My Jewishness sings to yr liver ;) Yours isn’t *quite* as good as my grandfather’s, but that would be impossible. <3

He responded: <3

Then a minute later, he wrote: Remember I told you I lived with a friend in Baltimore for a while? Well, Wallace, my friend, is coming to town in a few days. I’d love him to meet you…any chance could you do dinner on Thursday?

I got a fizzy jolt at the idea that Christopher would want his friend to meet me, and wrote back, It’s on!

So, after such a good day, my stomach sank a little bit when, next to me, Marcus swore then turned to me and said, “Ummm, don’t kill me, okay?”

I immediately looked at his client’s arm, praying that I wasn’t about to see he’d misspelled something, but the tattoo looked beautiful, like his work always did.

“Oh god, it’s been such a good day. Of course something horrible is about to happen.”

“No, no, nothing horrible. Just…reserve judgment.”

“I never reserve judgment!”

“Okay, so, a friend of mine—someone I’ve known for years and is a great tattooist—just moved back to Philly. I didn’t know he was coming but now that he’s here…I think he’d be great here. So will you look at his work?”

“Yeah of course, babe, that’s awesome!”

“Er, great, because he’s here and I forgot to tell you.” Marcus nodded toward the front of the shop.

Just inside the door stood one of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. He was shrouded in a black wool coat that looked too heavy for the weather, and had a gray scarf wrapped many times around his neck.

He was very tall and slim, and of mixed race, though I couldn’t tell his ethnic background, with dark skin and bleached-white hair in a messy topknot. His high, rounded cheekbones and the clean line of his jaw made him look aloof, like a model, but his full mouth turned up a bit at the corners, giving him a mischievous air. Dark eyebrows feathered over thickly-lashed gray eyes that were fixed on the corner of the ceiling above my head when I walked up to him.

“Hi, you’re Marcus’s friend? I’m Ginger.”

It took a moment for his eyes to leave the ceiling and focus on me, as if I’d interrupted him thinking about something important and totally absorbing. But then he smiled slightly as I was coming into focus, and nodded.

“Come on in. Sorry, Marcus didn’t quite get around to telling me your name,” I said just as Marcus came over, stripping off his gloves. The man bent to hug Marcus and kissed his cheek. Though he was tall, his shoulders made even broader by the heavy coat and voluminous scarf, he moved like mercury, each gesture as fluid as a dancer’s.

“This is Faron,” Marcus said, and Faron offered his hand.

Even his handshake was graceful. He had such a strong physical presence that I found myself staring at him even after we’d let go.

“Okay,” Marcus said. “I have to finish with this client, but you’re coming back to mine and Selene’s, yeah?”

Faron nodded slowly and inclined his head.

“Selene’s excited to meet you. It’s all good.” Marcus squeezed Faron’s arm and went back to his client.

“Here, why don’t we go in the back,” I said.

I took Faron into one of the private rooms we used for piercings or tattoos where a client might not want to be undressed in the main shop, pulled the curtain closed, and sat in the chair. Faron stood just inside the curtain.

“You can throw your coat and stuff here.” I pointed to a coat hook and then gestured for Faron to sit wherever.

He set his portfolio carefully on the table, unwound his scarf, and shed his coat. He had to be six three or six four, but he neither slouched to seem shorter nor leveraged his height. He seemed completely comfortable in his skin. He wore skin-tight black jeans that made his long legs look even longer, pointy-toed red leather ankle boots, and a thick charcoal gray sweater that zipped up the sides. He sank gracefully into the chair against the wall and I forced myself to pick up his portfolio and leaf through it rather than staring at him like a total creep.

His talent was clear from the first image. Clean, confident lines, even shading, perfect proportion. As I flipped through a few more, his talent with color became clear. His colors were fully saturated, well-balanced, made even pedestrian tattoos look unique. I paused at one of a bumblebee that was done with only a shader. The texture of its body looked fuzzy; its wings gauzy. It was excellent work.

He had everything in here. Every style—from new school to horror, steampunk to portraits—and every mood, from memorials to cartoon puppy dogs. It was the most diverse portfolio I’d ever seen.

I closed it and looked at Faron. He was gazing up into the corner of the room at nothing.

“Why do you want to tattoo here?”

He looked at me, gaze shifting from dreamy to intense in a split second. When he opened his mouth, I realized he hadn’t spoken yet. His voice was low, and lighter than I expected, like driftwood.

“Marcus says you’re amazing, and I trust his opinion. I like that the shop is queer friendly.” He spoke slowly and clearly, but I got the sense it wasn’t his preferred mode of communication. As if he expressed himself in ink and pure physicality rather than words. “I saw your painting. Online. When I looked up the shop. You’re very talented.”

He glanced down at his boots, then crossed his legs as if to have something to do. It was the first gesture that had seemed anything but completely graceful.

“Thank you.”

“I paint too,” he said. His voice was soft, almost wistful, and I thought he’d say more, but he just looked up toward the ceiling again, like he’d gotten distracted.

“That’s cool. We should talk painting some time.”

He nodded absently, and gave me that hint of a smile again. He was a bit strange, that was for sure, but being in his presence I was filled with peace. It was a gut-level reaction, my electrons vibing with someone else’s, but it rarely failed me. And I knew that if he put me at ease, it was likely he’d have the same effect on customers.

Having Phee in the shop had been a huge help, but though he was very talented, he just wasn’t experienced enough to deal with everything that walked in the door yet. This guy was. Oh, yeah, he definitely was.

“All right,” I said.

Faron quirked an eyebrow and canted his head a bit, as if asking for confirmation.

I nodded, smiling. “You’re hired.”

“Thank you very much.”

He held out a hand, shaking mine firmly, and smiling broadly for the first time.

A slow, warm smile. The kind that wasn’t deployed casually to greet an acquaintance or say thank you. It was a smile that had to be genuinely elicited or not seen all.