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You were reaching for the tray of pork loin Mr. Kriegman had just been about to set down on your paper plate, your stomach already ahead of your manners, when he paused mid-motion with his tongs.
“Hey, where’s your napkin, Schatz?”
You blinked down at your plate.
Nothing.
Right. Your napkin.
You were certain you’d had one earlier..somewhere between the second helping and the enthusiastic meat-frenzy that had taken over the evening. It had clearly vanished into the same void as your self-control.
“No idea, actually,” you muttered.
Your gaze drifted across the yard. Cal was slumped in one of those familiar white plastic chairs, the universal kind that somehow survived every gathering. His plate rested on his knee as he animatedly argued with Andre’s brother about something. Planes, figurines, or maybe just the general art of being loud and obnoxious.
You leaned slightly, calling over.
“Hey, Gabriel, can you pass me a napkin?”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“They finished ages ago, chicky. Get your own.”
Mr. Kriegman let out a delighted chuckle at that, clearly entertained by the exchange. You gave him a small smile in return, more polite than amused, and set your plate down on a nearby table.
“Excuse me for a second,” you said. “I’ll grab another packet from the kitchen.”
“Of course, young lady,” he replied warmly. “That’s very kind of you for the whole Kriegman community.”
The yard buzzed behind you, voices spilling out into the warm evening, laughter caught in the slow hum of a summer gathering. The adults were still deep in conversation, the kids scattered and loud and alive. Nobody noticed you slipping away. Even Miss Kriegman was too busy giggling with a fellow lady to notice the absence of napkins.
Which was fine. You knew this house like muscle memory. You’d been here so often it didn’t even feel like visiting anymore. It just felt like… orbiting.
You slipped inside like you belonged there.. which, inconveniently, you did.
The kitchen was quieter, cooler. Gold-orange light from the backyard spilled through the windows in long, lazy streaks, painting the counters in the color of late sunset. Everything looked softer in it. Slower. Like the house was exhaling.
You found the napkins in a high cabinet and reached up, already planning your escape route: in, out, back to the food, maybe a quick glance at that ridiculous baby photo of Andre in the hallway just because it never failed to ruin you a little.
Then—
“Hey.”
Low. Rough. Familiar.
You didn’t even need to turn around.
But you did anyway.
Andre was leaning against the counter like he’d always been there, like he’d grown out of the tile and decided to speak. You weren't sure if you simply hadn't noticed him, or if he really just wandered in.
T-shirt, cargo shorts, worn blue sneakers. Simple, unbothered, almost unfairly ordinary for how much space he took up in your head. And his own, definitely.
“Hi,” you said, too light for the way your stomach shifted.
“I thought you were peeing.”
“I was. Then I needed air.”
You set the napkin packet down beside you, pretending that was the most interesting object in the room.
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“Your brother?”
The reaction was immediate—Andre’s expression tightening just slightly, like he’d bitten into something too sharp. Not anger. Something closer to friction.
He didn’t hate his brother. That was the problem. He just always seemed to shrink a fraction when he was around—like the volume of everything else got turned up and he couldn’t find his place in it. Even Cal seemed excited to be around him.
“I mean,” he started, leaning back against the counter beside you, “I went to piss like ten minutes ago and not a single person noticed I was gone.”
You tilted your head.
“Were you eavesdropping?”
He didn’t answer. Just looked away.
That was answer enough.
A smile tugged at you before you could stop it.
“I thought about your absence,” you said. “I just didn’t say anything. Figured you were either having stomach trouble from all that steak—”
You hesitated, testing the waters.
“—or… wanking one out.”
Andre went rigid.
Then slowly turned his head toward you, scandalized in principle, but already failing at hiding his amusement.
“Why would I be— holy shit, Y/N. You’re disgusting. No. What the hell. Why would I be doing that while everyone’s outside? On a warm summer evening?”
The more he defended himself, the less convincing he became.
You leaned in slightly, eyes half-lidded.
“Because I’m wearing a nice tank top.”
“And my hair is done for once,” you added. “And I’m just… hovering around everyone like I belong here.”
A beat.
His voice dropped, immediate and firm.
“You do.”
That stopped you more than you expected.
Then, softer, almost like he regretted saying it out loud but didn’t take it back:
“I did need air from that idiot,” he said, nodding vaguely toward the yard. “But I also… noticed you.”
A pause.
“Beautiful.”
The word landed heavier than it should’ve.
Between you and Andre Kriegman, nothing was ever officially anything. No labels, no declarations, no neatly defined edges. Just a long, quiet history of almosts—notes passed in passing classes, touches that lingered too long to be accidental, words that always stopped just short of becoming confessions.
And somehow, everyone else still thought you were just friends. Even if a tease slipped here and there, of course.
You faced it so regularly that you almost believed it too. On days when he didn’t look at you like that.
His hand caught your wrist gently.
Not forceful. Certain.
He pulled you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world, like you’d always been meant to end up within reach.
The kitchen, washed in that orange sunset light, felt smaller. Warmer. Like the world outside had turned down its noise just to listen in.
“Andre—”
He didn’t let the sentence finish.
His mouth met yours instead.
The kiss wasn’t hesitant. Not now.
It started like something he’d been holding back all day—confident in a way that made your thoughts go briefly quiet. Your hands found his shoulders on instinct, steadying yourself more than him.
His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, anchoring you there like he’d decided you weren’t going anywhere.
When you broke away just enough to breathe, he followed you anyway, like it was reflex. A soft exhale, foreheads nearly brushing....
Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that didn’t rush anywhere because it already knew where it was going. Like it was written in code. Like it meant something.
It probably did.
The taste of smoke from the grill still lingered faintly on him, mixed with something familiar—soap, heat, the kind of scent you only notice when someone has been close to you too often to be neutral anymore. The one that lingers in a person's room, or on their clothes. He also smelled slightly like cologne. Faint, fading cologne. He probably applied it long ago and it was starting to leave him.
His mouth caught yours again, briefly teasing, and when you pulled back just enough to breathe, his big nose gave you troubles with that, he didn’t let the space last long.
Outside, laughter swelled through the open windows. Someone shouted something about dessert. The world kept moving, completely unconcerned.
Inside, everything turned molten and quiet.
You finally managed to pull away once more, planting your mouth on the mole above his lip, trailing all the way down to the ones on his neck.
Andre threw his head back as you traced his moles with your lips–one of your favorite activities on him, but he immediately let out a quiet ow.
when he hit the back of his head on one of the high drawers instead. ''Damn it.'';
‘‘Spaz.’’ You joked, lips ghosting away from his neck. He looked very beautiful, holding you mercilessly, counter probably digging his poor back.
You heard Andre mumble something under his breath, probably a 'shut up'. You reached for the packet of napkins on the counter.
‘‘.. If it gets too lame, stand by me, alright? I'll share some pork loin with you.’’
‘‘.. Yeah, yeah. Sounds good.’’
You left Andre in the kitchen for a minute, napkins in hand, as you peaked out of the closed big door window in the kitchen that led to their backyard.
‘‘Napkin delivery!’’
Someone said yay. Probably that same random kid that hit on you that one time. No, seriously, who was that?
And somewhere behind you, still in the kitchen glow, Andre stayed exactly where you left him.