“Since we’re being upfront with each other, I feel like I should also tell you…”

Micah’s stomach clenched.

“…I greatly enjoy pistachio ice cream.”

Was… was Damon cracking a joke?

Micah stared him down, but the man’s mouth didn’t so much as twitch. The glimmer of amusement in his eyes gave him away, however. “You monster,” Micah accused, deciding to go along with Damon’s blatant attempt to deescalate the situation. “Now I know the real reason you can’t get a date.” (Micah wasn’t entirely feigning his disgust. Anyone who chose pistachio ice cream over hot fudge or caramel had to have been a direct relation of the devil.)

Of course, the real reason Damon was still single probably had more to do with his choice of… extracurricular activities than his favorite flavor of ice cream. Which brought Micah back to Damon’s proposal.

He blamed what happened next on the hypnotizing motion of Damon’s thumbs on the thin skin of his inner wrists.

He took a deep breath in through his nose. “Fine,” Micah said, biting out the word before he could change his mind. “One event, but that’s it.”

And then he was cutting off contact with Damon. He had to.

Damon sighed in relief. “Thank you,” he said, gratitude evident in his voice.

Micah nodded, and in a desperate bid to do something with his hands before he did something with his hands, he shook Damon off before turning and opening his refrigerator. “Want something to drink?” he asked before taking in the contents of his fridge and realizing all he had to offer was a couple cans of his favorite energy drink and a carton of milk that’s best by date had passed three days ago. “Uh… I mean, I have a water softener, so the stuff that comes out of the tap is passable. Sorry, if I had remembered you were coming, I would have gotten some refreshments or something.”

When Micah peeked over his shoulder, he saw how horrified Damon looked at the sad state of his fridge. Understandable, considering how empty it was. Some sandwich meat, a carton of eggs, various condiments, a half a jar of pickles, a bag of shredded cheddar, and some wilted greens that had looked crisp when he’d optimistically bought them a week ago at the store, but now appeared to be on death’s door, was all there was taking up space in the vintage appliance.

Still, Micah didn’t want to encourage the “poor, desolate prostitute” image Damon already had in his head of him.

“I haven’t had time to go shopping,” he said, a bit waspishly, even though Damon hadn’t actually said anything. (He didn’t need to. His expressive eyebrows spoke for him.)

“Too busy with all that… ‘stuff’?”