Page 6 of Played By Design

Every second counts. Soap, shampoo, rinse. The steam swells, carrying the clean, unscented freshness of Kain’s soap. No fake mango or driftwood musk for us.

Three minutes in, I’m rinsing shampoo from my hair, run times ticking down in my head. It’s like mapping a timed potions quest where every step counts.

The guitar solo is ramping up toward the last chorus as I cut the water with forty seconds to spare.

I snag a Turkish towel from the heated rack and rub my wet hair. Clean clothes wait on the marble countertop, and my dirty ones have vanished.

I recognize my favorite faded jeans and oversized hoodie. Beside them sits my almond-hued nape guard, its supple leather hiding carbon fiber wires that prevent tampering.

Pursing my lips at it, I finish drying off, pull on my clothes, and shove it into the front pocket of the hoodie instead of putting it on.

Downshift starts as I open the bathroom door, transitioning seamlessly from Save Point.

Dinner is already on the table when I reach the kitchen, each component separated into its own dish.

On a small plate, Kain’s homemade chicken fingers, white meat only, the breading golden and crisp enough that it crackles when I pick one up. Apple slices in a bowl, cold from the fridge, the edges barely starting to brown. In a second bowl, broccoli, stalks only, because I find the heads gross. The taste isn’t the problem. It’s the way the florets come apart in my mouth and stick to every crevice.

Ranch dressing in a small ramekin. Smooth peanut butter in another.

Kain’s plate sits across from mine. Grilled chicken, the broccoli heads he cut off my stalks, and the other half of the apple I’m not eating. His food touches. His broccoli florets mingle with his chicken.

The man lives on the edge.

I drop into my chair and reach for an apple slice. It snaps when I bite through the skin, and I do a little wiggle. I drag the other half through smooth peanut butter and polish it off.

The chicken finger is perfect, the breading flaking into golden crumbs, the meat tender and juicy. Exactly what I wanted, even though I said I wasn’t hungry ten minutes ago.

I dip the end in enough ranch to add flavor without compromising the crunch. Next is the raw, cold broccoli, its fibrous stalk snapping between my teeth.

Across from me, Kain cuts his chicken with a knife and fork. It’s unnecessary, but that’s Kain, always doing things the way they’re supposed to be done, even when the proper way takes more effort.

His dark hair falls across his forehead, and he pushes it back, attention fixed on his phone as he reviews tonight’s set.

“Where are the fries?” I ask, reaching for another chicken finger.

Kain doesn’t look up. “They come with your sundae.”

Right. Stackers. The deal. I’d forgotten about my Sweet Stack for approximately forty seconds, which is either a testament to how good the chicken is or how poor my object permanence becomes with food in front of me.

I finish eating, lining up the last apple slice, chicken finger, and broccoli stalk in descending order of thickness because that’s the right way.

Kain clears his plate, collects my dishes, rinses them, and puts them in the dishwasher. That’s our cue to leave.

I’m already at the garage door, shoes tied and hand on the handle, when Kain stops me.

“Hold on.”

He reaches past me to the small table by the door, which holds my charging station and lined-up handheld devices. He picks up my Pulse Riot tablet and my farming sim tablet, offering them to me.

I slip them into my pockets and tuck the power bank into its usual spot in my hoodie’s side pocket.

When he reaches for the front pocket of my hoodie, I step back.

He catches my elbow, holding me in place, and finds the almond-colored nape guard.

He holds it up between us. “Bunny.”

I huff with annoyance. “I was going to put it on.”