Mind Blind Saucy Side: Vanilla Spice (Grayson) (Patreon)

“Sooooo . . .” Glitch waggles her pierced brows suggestively. “Kenzie and I need you to settle a debate we were having about you and Fortitude.”

You glance over at Kent, who gives a half-shrug as if to say ‘leave me out of this’.

“I think that your dear Mr. Black has hidden depths.” This time, Glitch’s eyebrows raise so high that they’re in danger of leaping off her face. “Hidden passions. Kenzie, however, disagrees.”

“I said it wasn’t our business,” Kent corrects.

Glitch rests her chin in her hands, cherub-style, and leans across the lunch table towards you. “Inquiring minds need to know, Wiseman,” she continues, ignoring Kent’s small sigh. “Is Gray as vanilla as he seems? Or is he actually into—”

“We’re going.” Kent stands, grabbing his friend by the arm and hauling her upright alongside him.

“Going where?” Glitch demands. 

Kent mulls over her question, before ultimately shrugging. “We’re going,” he repeats, having not deemed it worth his time to think up an actual excuse. 

Glitch squawks in protest as he drags her from the cafeteria.

* * * *

Vanilla? It’s not a word that you ever use when thinking about your boyfriend.

Sweet, loyal, trustworthy? Yes.

Considerate? Insanely hot? Yes, and yes.

Painfully British? Also yes.

But vanilla?

. . . Huh.

* * * *

The best part about having Grayson as a boyfriend is that he always knows what you want. In large part, this is because he reads your mind whenever his lips touch yours in a “welcome home” kiss. But Gray has also learned to recognize the more subtle, physical signs that indicate when you need space. On those days, he’ll eschew the physical greeting in place of ordering your favorite takeout for dinner and sitting in the recliner so that you can have the comfy couch to yourself while you both watch Jeopardy. Nick half-jokes, half-laments that you two act like an octogenarian married couple, and you can’t really refute his claim. But you and Gray are happy together.

The worst part of having Grayson as a boyfriend is that . . . well, he always knows what you want. Always. Even when it comes to those things that you’re not quite ready to vocalize, Grayson learns whenever you crawl into bed beside him (while you two do keep separate bedrooms, just in case you need a private day, yours goes unused more nights than not). Gray knows what you want for your birthday, and what you feel like having for dinner. Shallow thoughts, surface thoughts, because he’ll never try to pry into your secrets without your permission (and a lifetime of training has made you pretty good at refocusing your brain).

Tonight, however, he picks up the conversation you had this morning with Glitch. The thought is an idle one, but Gray, his arms wrapped around you, stiffens against your back.

“What’s wrong with vanilla?” he asks, sounding defensive.

You twist around in his arms to face him, placing a soft kiss against the bristle of his evening stubble.

“Absolutely nothing,” you assure him, meaning it. “I like you just the way you are.”

He yawns against your neck, mumbling something that you can't quite make out until it becomes a soft snore.

* * * *

It’s true that Gray has never been the most adventurous lover. 

Perhaps it’s because he can read your thoughts, but he knows what you like and he tends to stick to it, whispering his own desires against your skin as he explores your body. Your relationship hasn’t ever been about exciting voyages to unknown peaks of pleasure, but rather a homecoming to the place where you both belong.

You’re happy with Gray, happier than you ever thought possible. Gray knows that—he must know that, given that your hand is currently nestled within his.

You smile up at him as you two head towards your favorite coffee shop, Chicago's winter cold pinkening what little of his face is visible between his pulled-down knit cap and thick-knit woolen scarf. You’re similarly bundled up, so your smile can’t be seen, but he squeezes your hand through your mitten, knowing that it’s there and that it’s for him.

Because Grayson always knows.

* * * *

“I’ll have a . . .” Gray clears his throat, casting you an inscrutable glance.

“Sir?” the barista asks.

Gray clears his throat once more. “I’ll have a vanilla spice latte.”

That’s not his normal order.

He grins at you, a hint of cockiness entering his expression. “Sometimes it’s good to try new things.”

* * * *

Two days go by.

You stop at the coffee shop on the third morning on your way to Aeon.

Grayson orders his usual black coffee.

* * * *

That evening, you return to your shared apartment to find Gray standing next to the kitchen table. The overhead lights are dimmed, and he’s set the table in traditional restaurant-style with a white clothe and tall, slender candles, their flames twinkling off the glass bottle of wine he’s chosen.

He bows to you, teasing but also a little nervous (because he knows that this is cheesy, although he still does it almost every other month). 

“My love,” he says. “Won’t you join me?”

You laugh and sit as he pulls out your chair. You gesture to the plated food. “Looks delicious,” you tell him, pretending not to notice the empty takeout boxes from Mario in the nearby bin.

Gray beams but then sighs. He never keeps secrets from you, even obvious ones, insisting that it wouldn't be fair. “I tried to cook again, but then the ov—”

Your lips quiet his. I know.

* * * *

Vanilla is amazing.

* * * *

But so, you realize as Gray caresses your midriff, is spice.

The flame from this evening’s candles flickers between his fingers like an errant firefly, warming your skin everywhere he almost, but never quite, touches. He knows how close to get and when to pull back, because Gray always knows. The fire is a tantalizing tongue that licks and nips you to feverish desperation, only for Gray’s mouth—at exactly the right moment—to grant you a blissfully cooling reprieve.

The fire cusped in Gray's hands extinguishes as he splays his large palms against your waist. His bare chest, dusted gold with sweat-slicked hair, heaves from his efforts to control both the flame as well as his own desires.

“I want you,” he says. Honestly, simply. A declaration that is, at its core, is a little bit vanilla.

You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, drawing him close until your bodies melt together like heated wax.

At the end of the day, you don't want any flavor but his.