𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬

twenty-five. | before/seventeen.

before
seventeen

"You could have ordered your own," I snap as he helps himself to my stack and wrinkles his nose at my dousing of syrup.

"I could have, or you could manage to eat something without drowning it in something else."

He's using a spoon to yank off chucks, while I hold my fork, ready to stab his hand.

"I don't judge you for how you eat, don't judge me."

He puts another chunk in his mouth before letting his lips bow into a grin.

I wear a glower but underneath it, I warm to the look in his eyes.

He's missed this just as much as I have.

There are no words to describe it.

But it's there.

Maybe if I was spiritual, I would believe in things like soulmates. Only I'm versed enough to know that's not what we are.

Soulmates are two wholes undoubtedly meant for one another.

I think we might be more like Twin Flames.

Two halves of the same soul. Ripped apart to spend eternity searching for the part they are missing.

He's the half that holds on to our moral compass.

I'm the half that utterly accepts the other.

He's reason.

I am emotion.

He is the water and I am the flame.

"I carved a mantle piece for my mom and Gene," he says. "I used grizzly pine to stain it."

"Excellent choice."

"I thought you'd think so."

"What did you carve?"

"A welcome sign with her new last name."

"Wedding present?"

He nods.

"And your new step-siblings, what are they like?"

"Young," he replies, reaching for more of my pancakes. "Oldest is in middle school. Mom loves them."

"I bet. See any friends while you were there?"

Anaca's shoulders roll as he stiffens a bit. "No, not really."

"Did you have none?"

To most that might seem crude, but not to him.

He exhales, sharply. "I had friends, Woody."

"Like I have friends, Anay?"

He ticks a brow at me as the waitress returns with the check, telling us to take our time.

I'm done and he picks over my leftovers, looking for pieces that aren't smothered in syrup.

I unzip my backpack, grabbing a few bills.

"No."

I ignore him, reaching for the check, but he quickly snatches it away from me.

"No," he repeats.

"It's Ian's money," I say. "Not mine. We might as well use his."

Anaca won't hear of it, sliding out of the booth, putting his layers back on.

I roll my eyes as I do the same, shoving the cash back in my bag. I notice my phone sitting in the same pocket. I should text at least Willow.

I'm zipping up my jacket when he returns.