You take care of your boys. Sometimes that means you guard over the nest that is more expectant than it is empty, keeping home warm and ready in the event of their need. Sometimes that means you go lonely, just for stretches, when they are fulfilling their futures and making your chest swell tight with pride. And sometimes that means you head home to a warm kitchen and a warming oven, setting the appliance to preheat before you even unfasten the top button of your collared shirt, because sometimes your boys deserve a little treat. Just because.
Sometimes David determines you deserve a little treat, too.
Your decisions are doting and measured, spiced with sentimentality and deployed with deliberation. When you circle through the kitchen, pulling out ingredients, reaching for the measuring bowl, it is with the comfort of much practice. When David perches on your kitchen countertop, hip cocked and arms splayed behind him for support, it is with the comfort of carelessness. Even with his sunglasses perched customarily on the bridge of his nose, the familiar shield, there is something unguarded about him. It is layered into his posture and into the way his head tilts to the side, so that you know he is regarding you without reservation.
David is a distraction, the square skirt of an old apron twitched artfully over his thighs, held barely bound to his hips. He lounges. The neckline is a similar angle, counterpoint to his sharp limbs and softened smile, a fold of fabric that serves to rest beneath prominent collarbones. Punctuation that only highlights those familiar ridges, much as the modesty of the apron skirt only draws attention to the stretches of skin it does not cover. The breast of the apron reads "Kiss the Cook."
You watch David as he watches you, you cracking eggs and mixing cookie dough, he resting against the Formica in uncommon comfort. It's casual. Familiar. David is a departure from the rote actions of measuring, the steady motion of your arm as you even the consistency of the dough. There is an underlying promise to his self-imposed near-nakedness, an offer you accept tacitly through dragging looks even as you delay. When the dough is uniform, perfect, you lean across the counter. The words blazoned on David's borrowed apron speak to you.
You kiss David, sweet like brown sugar and and smooth like cream. He kisses back, warm like embers and soft like dough. Sometimes, you take care of your boys. Sometimes, they take care of you.