Dres and I are debating Marvel and DC comics so heatedly that when we get back into town, I don't even notice he's driven me home. "Oh, my car's at school," I say, frowning. It's already past nine and I'm ready to pass out. Forget about any of the assignments I have to get done.

     "I'll pick you up tomorrow, bring you to school," he responds, like this is a simple fix.

     "I have practice in the morning."

     "Okay?"

     "I have to be there at five-thirty." He is still looking at me like he fails to see the problem. "That's very early."

     "That's around the same time I head to the store. I'll be outside at five-twenty?"

     I pause, wanting to argue this further because it feels like I'm putting him out. "Okay, yeah. I'll see you in the morning, then."

     He's not smiling but his expression is open, warmer than I'm used to. "Get some sleep," he says.

     "Good night."

     I climb out fully, grab my bag, and wave behind me as I head inside. I drop my bag at the stairs and head for the kitchen where I'm sure to find my mother. She's at the island, drinking tea and reading. She glances up from her book when she hears me enter, greeting me with a smile. "How was your meet?"

     "It was really good. I beat my time for the 200 Butterfly. A minute and thirty-nine seconds. That's even better than some college athletes."

     "Cas," she exclaims excitedly, jumping up from her seat to hug me. "Congratulations! We should celebrate." She heads for the freezer and pulls out a pint of ice cream.

     "It's not that big of a deal mom. I still need to work on my 200 IM."

     She returns to the island with two spoons and cookie dough ice cream. I join her in eating it because I'm not going to turn down ice cream. Come on now.

     "So I've got a dilemma," I say between spoonfuls. She looks at me curiously, urging me on. "Dres said I can choose what we do Sunday, for our date. But I can't decide."

    "How about the movies?" she asks.

     "We already did that and there's nothing great playing."

     "Okay, why not go out to dinner?"

     "I thought of that. But it feels impersonal. Like he took us hiking, and I'm like hey, let's hit chipotle? That's not going to work. I wish I had a cool hobby."

     "Swimming is your cool hobby."

    "Yeah, but I can't take him swimming."

     She looks up, thinking, and then says, "Why not have him over and cook dinner together? He likes to cook and you could use the practice for when you go off to school..."

     I mull over the option. "That's actually a good idea...but I'm not going to have my date be supervised by my mom, no offense."

     She laughs, setting her spoon down on the counter. "With what you say to me, I'm well within reason to supervise."

     "Again, it's not like either of us is going to end up pregnant." She glares at me because that's never her point. I drop my head onto the counter and groan. "I told him I'd have it all planned for tomorrow. What am I going to do? I suck at this dating thing. Really. I should just be alone. Forever."

     My mom says slowly, like she's still deciding, "I could go into work for a few hours? I'm behind on some paperwork. Maybe even catch a movie."

     I look up at her hopefully, but then say, "You can't see a movie by yourself. I won't let you. It's too sad."

     "I have friends, you know." She goes to take the spoon from me but I swipe one more bite of ice cream before passing it off. "My offer's coming off the table you better decide quickly..."

     "Okay, okay, yeah that works. Thank you."

    "I'll be back promptly at ten thirty though," she says looking at me intensely. "And I don't want any funny business. And absolutely no going upstairs for any reason."

    "Okay, A. if any business was going down, it wouldn't be funny, and B. such business could occur just as much downstairs as it could upstairs."

    "Do you want me to change my mind?"

     "No!" I cry laughing. "I was just presenting an opposing argument. No funny business, no going upstairs. Got it. Duly noted." I pull out my phone and text my group chat, requesting a conference call with Halston and Grace. They're both free so I jump up, saying, "Alright, I'm headed to bed. I'll see you the morning."

     "Good night," she says with a small smile.

     When I get upstairs, my phone's already buzzing. When I pick up, I say, "Okay, I've figured out Sunday. But now I need to come up with a functional dinner menu that I can't possibly screw up..."

     Dres is early and I'm still running around the living room trying to hide baby photos my mom wouldn't let me put away earlier. I can see him standing on the front porch through the living room window, so I stuff two frames into the couch and then rush for the door.

     "Oh my god, she didn't," I exclaim, staring wide-eyed at the basket of clean clothes by the stairs. I've got Captain America themed briefs sitting right on top. I pick up the basket and slide it into the hall closet. Dres rings the doorbell so I do one last look around before I open the front door with what I hope is a relaxed smile.

     "What are you doing?" he asks as way of greeting.

     I'm leaning against the doorframe trying to appear natural even though I'm out of breath. I'd had an argument with my mom earlier about putting away photos and other things I didn't want Dres to see. She'd insisted that the family photos and childhood possessions remain exactly where they were, that Dres would find them cute. Sure he would, but I wasn't really in the market of looking cute to Dres.

     "Nothing," I say with a deep breath. "God, the temp really has dropped. Winter is coming, ha. Right. Anyway. Come in?" He squints at me like he thinks I'm acting weirder than usual, but isn't going to comment on it. I step aside so he can step in and close the door behind him.

     Ten minutes ago, I was nervous because Dres was going to be in my house and between the age of eleven and fifteen, I was really hard on the eyes. But now as he steps into my house, I am now sweating bullets because he is so hot.

     Dres looks good every day, that's unarguable. But he looks really good today – hair slicked back, perfect-fitting jeans and leather jacket, with the scent of cologne clouding the doorway and bathing the foyer.

     "Welcome to the Sumner home," I say like my blood pressure did not just spike a nauseating amount and burst every vessel in my face.

     Dres is still looking at me like I'm crazy, probably because my voice is one octave too high, like my airway is pinched. Also because I'm looking at him like what the actual fuck allows a person to be this good looking. Is he getting hotter the longer he stands in my house? With my bedroom right up those stairs and fuck fuck fuck why didn't I think about these things?

     "What are you doing right now?" he asks, expression confused as he looks at me. I've been staring at him long enough for him to feel the need to point it out, apparently.

     "Huh?" I say but don't stop staring at him. He's wearing a black shirt underneath his jacket. There's buttons at his neck and they're all opened, revealing tattoos and smooth chest. It's been really long, too long, since my hands have been on that chest.

     "You're staring," he says blankly.

     I say, unfocused, with a wave of my hand so he'll stop giving me shit, "I'm marveling at the uh revelations of the world."

     He lifts his head slightly, chin jutting outwards, and it's a surprisingly cocky gesture coming from Dres. "You're marveling at the revelations of me."

     "Fine, Dres. Yes. I'm marveling at you. Happy?" I roll my eyes, pulling my gaze from his arms to finally check back into reality. "Do you want to hang up your jacket?"

     "I don't know. If I take it off is that going to be even more distracting?" He's smirking at me, which doesn't help in the least with the whole distracting thing.

     "Wow! Someone get this guy a mic," I say sarcastically and he starts to grin at me, something less of a smile but still amused.

     He shrugs off his jacket and I take it from him, hanging it up in the coat closet. My Captain America underwear glare at me from the clothes basket. I quickly shut the door before Dres sees them but it doesn't even matter. He's rounded the corner and is walking into through the archway into the living room.

      There are two types of living rooms in Aurora: ones you actually live in and ones you just display. Most of the residents here have display living rooms. Few have both. That's our very well-off population. But for the Sumner's — we have what is very clearly a live-in living room.

      My five year old handprints are slapped across the middle cushion of our sectional. My hand prints are bright yellow, stark against the soft grey upholstery. It inspired my mom to decorate the way she did, with neutral furniture complimented by yellow decor. The two windows that look out into the front lawn have succulents on the window sills. We've tried to keep more complicated plants alive and have failed. Between them is our fireplace we really, rarely, light. I like the stone setting it has, even though a batting practice incident back in '06 took a big chunk out of it.

     Right off of the living room, through French doors is my mom's study. It's bathed in light, modern and clean, but smells of books. She has a huge bookcase on one of the walls, shelved with old and new favorites. Dres peruses the office, walking with his arms folded behind his back as he looks. I linger by the archway, giving him the space to be nosy. Dres being nosy is something new, and is as fascinating as it is entertaining.

     He steps out of the study and back into the living room, crossing the room towards the fireplace where there are framed photos on display under the mounted television.

     "You were adorable," he says fondly, picking up a frame to examine it closer. I kept out the cutest photos of me (age range newborn to eight years old.)

     "Hey, I'm still adorable. Just in an older, hotter, more masculine way." He glances up at me but doesn't make any attempt of disagreeing, which feels like a small victory.

     Instead, he waves the frame in his hand. "This is a nice photo."

     I walk over to get a closer look, reaching out and bringing his hand up closer. It's a family photo, meaning my dad's in it, too. There aren't many photos of him around – actually, that's probably one of maybe three in the whole house. He was usually the one behind the camera when he was still around.

     This one is three of us at the beach. My mom's sitting back, with her knees propped up and a book open on them. She's got sunglasses on, and her hair is a wild mess of curls over her shoulders. I'm by her feet, seven or eight years old, crossed-legged and smiling with a missing front tooth, and my dad's on his side behind me. His shoulders, and nose are white with sunscreen. So are mine, actually. The only thing we really have in common is our sensitivity to the sun.

     I swallow, ready to say something but I don't know what.

     Dres beats me to it, though, saying, "I never had a good relationship with my dad...even before he found out I was gay." This admission surprises me. Not the fact about his father – I knew there was something there but that he's admitting it to me, that he's saying it right now.

     "How come?" I ask quietly.

     He glances at me. "He was an unhappy man. He made sure everyone around him was, too."

     I don't know whether to prod Dres for more information, or give up some of my own. "When was the last time you saw him?" I decide to ask because that seems like a safe place to start.

     He hesitates, thinking, and then answers, "Six years ago." My eyes go wide, and he glances at me, before looking back down at the photo in his hands. I wish I could put that kind of time between my father and I (and then I don't, too).

     Dres places the photo back on the mantle like its something way more fragile than it actually is. He doesn't wait for me, just turns around and walks through the archway into the dining room. There's really nothing to see in our dining room just lots of china displayed in cabinets. We only eat on them for holidays. And then there's some modern paintings on the walls my mom insists "will be worth something someday."

     "Do you host holidays?" he asks as he runs a hand along the back of one of the dining chairs. The table's too big, seating twelve comfortably. My mom and I never eat in here. Most days it's a placeholder for the mail, and packages, and my textbooks when I don't feel like carrying them back to school. I packed these things away in the midst of my cleaning, so now the only thing left is a beige table runner and a fall-themed centerpiece composed of fresh pinecones and a large pumpkin.

     "We do," I say with a nod, sort of distracted and not at all ready to talk about something else. I want to know more, so much more, about Dres and his dad. So much more about Dres, in general. I figure if I offer information about myself Dres will feel more inclined to offer some of his own.

     I tell him, "My grandparents always fly up. And my uncle and aunt usually come for thanksgiving. I'm banned from the kitchen on all holidays."

     "I feel like there's a story there," he responds amused, sparing me a glance so I can see that he's fighting back a grin. Dres mostly fights back any expression of emotion. Maybe that's something he learned in the military.

     Now that he's prompted me, I exclaim, "You know, you ruin one turkey, and suddenly you've got zero kitchen privileges for any holiday."

     This makes him laugh, and I'm still not used to it. "And you're supposed to be cooking dinner tonight?"

     "Well we're co-cooking, so mostly I'm assisting you. And supplying the kitchen. And the supplies. And my comedic relief. And if somehow by just being in the vicinity of cooking food I ruin the meal, we'll order a pizza."

     "What comedic relief could you offer?" he quips before waltzing into the kitchen like he lives here or something. I like the mental image of that – Dres living here and occupying my space, of having shared space with Dres.

     I follow him in, saying, "I don't know why you keep trying to deny that I'm funny."

     "Tell a joke, then." He moves around the island, looking down at everything I've already set out – pans, vegetable oil, dishes, and cooking utensils.

     "I can't just tell a joke," I say haughtily as Dres turns to the stove.

     "You're supposed to be the comedic relief. Relieve me." He lifts the lid on the pot on the stove, and then turns back to me, his expression as close to shock as he'll allow it to be with one eyebrow lifted and his lips parted slightly. "Did you make this?"

     "What do I get if I did?" I ask surprising both Dres and myself by the question.

     Dres is, evidently, not playing ball. "Can I try it?"

     "Yeah, go ahead," I say kind of confused. I'd given him a clear opening. We're in my house completely alone for the evening. He should've taken the opening.

     He lifts the spoon left in the pot. The one my mom had instructed me to periodically stir the sauce with after she'd made it. "Your mom made this?" he asks.

     I nod my head, heading over to the fridge to get the last of the ingredients we'll need to make chicken parm.

     "Wow," he says with a whistle. And then again, "Wow."

     I'm laughing at him as I nod my head and say, "Yeah I freaking know. With a sauce like that it's hard to believe she's not Italian."

     He turns back around once he's placed the lid back, and leans against the stove, looking at me in a way I wish he wouldn't, all warm and open. "What is she?"

     I shake my head, shrugging. "She says she's everything. I don't really know what that means, but I'm almost positive she's not Italian. My last name gives nothing away so who knows honestly... Although my grandmother acts like one of those crazy Italian grandma's, the ones from Brooklyn who always-uh talk like-uh this." I do my best old Italian accent but am pretty sure I butcher it.

     Not that Dres at all notices. Instead, he asks, "Sumner's your mom's maiden name?"

     His question kind of throws me for a second, but then I realize what I've said about my last name so it makes senses. "Uh yeah, my parents were never married. And my mom insisted. And she's the boss so my dad just went along with it, I guess."

     Both of Dres's eyebrows raise for this, which is the most surprise he's ever expressed.

     "I don't know. Maybe she knew she wasn't going to last with my dad. Maybe she wanted me all to herself. I can't imagine being a Calvin Garçia."

     "Your dad is Spanish?" he asks.

     "Yeah, Columbian and Syrian."

     Dres nods, thoughtfully. He says lowly, "Calvin Garçia." And he laughs.

     "Doesn't really quite roll off the tongue," I remark.

      He shakes his head. "No. It's not Cas." He stares at me and maybe Dres's expression gives nothing away, maybe he does that on purpose, but his eyes say everything.

     My stomach is instantly knotted and below it I'm all stoked fire and heat.

     "We should get started? I'm getting hungry." My voice is flat, really unconvincing, because as much as I hate him looking at me like that more than anything I want to bathe in it.

     "Always hungry," Dres grumbles with a roll of his eyes and I grin.