Black Velvet (67) (Patreon)

"Wow, what a sour puss. I didn't tell you my courses were ending." I grin brightly at him, somehow at a loss for words, watch as his eyes slide to the door, and he shoves a hand in his pocket — almost like he's hiding.

Tobias doesn't smile back.

"...I heard it from Nic." He says.

I frown, my gaze shifting upwards to meet his.

"What?"

He inhales, his jaw clenching before he grimaces and looks away.

"Ah — nothing," he shrugs. It doesn't sound like nothing. "... How long is your shift?"

"What?"  The rapid change in conversation seems to sidestep what's bothering him, but I'm feeling bothered too.  "Is there — what about my shift?"

I've been feeling bothered since —

"... Mine is only four hours," Tobias' back is to me.  He pulls off his coat, washes his hands, and then yanks on his apron like it's some sort of weaponry.  I follow behind him, doing the same, but forgoing the apron, and my steps are slower.  I'm confused by his shifting mood,

"She says she needs the help, then schedules me for four fucking hours."  He snorts, "isn't she something?"

"... Is that worth your drive?"   I squint.  I wonder if that's the cause for his discomfort.  I can feel his uneasiness so expertly now... "Mine is only four hours too.  She isn't just cutting your hours, I mean.  Not this time.  If you were worried about that."

"I'm not worried.  You should apply at the café.  You could work with me there,"  Tobias' voice is dark and sleep-deep, has gravel to it that is working over the sensitivity that my body has settled into.

Is this...?

"... In Huxley?"

"You'd get a hell of a lot more money.  They have hours."

"My car isn't reliable."  I crouch for the flour, scooping it up into the mixing bowl that Tobias is assembling noisily.  He seems — off.

I focus on gathering the ingredients for the dough in front of me faster, using it as a distraction as he crowds into my space — reaching for the measuring cups and above me.

"You don't look like you slept well," I frown as I say it, ignoring the way his chest touches my upper back — ignoring the familiar smell of his body wash. I want to touch him, but I stand there, as stupidly as ever.

"Did you," Tobias inhales, and I feel the slide of his chest against me as he pulls away, "sleep well?"

His measuring cups clink against the counter as he chews the inside of his cheek, and I try to focus,

Is he upset...

With me?

Then my eyes widen, and I push the dough up on the counter, turn to face Tobias,

"Oh my God — are you bummed that I didn't text you about my classes?" It's the immediate shift in Tobias' features that give it away.  His brows arch just enough, and he hesitates.

I turn with my messy hands and set down my scraper.

"You don't text me," Tobias pulls out the flour from beneath the counter, with his head ducked close to my hips, "... About anything."

His dark eyes slide up to mine as if he can convey with a look where his stance lies on the matter.   He stands. He should look like a man spurned, but instead — his gaze flits down from my eyes and pauses on my lips.

"You don't text me either," I mumble, swallowing down a lump of surprise, "um… About anything."

If Tobias has felt the same way — then, I'm not alone in this, and,

"So.  I thought."  I shrug, apprehensive, "well, I thought you'd be bothered if I texted you.  But — if I think about it.  I was, um... well.  When you didn't tell me about Huxley or your new job, I...."

My eyes widen then.  I stifle a laugh, mostly because suddenly, Tobias looks absolutely murderous,

"... And you heard about it from Nic."  Tobias raises an eyebrow but doesn't say much more.  He tightens the straps on his apron in a way that shouldn't leave me staring at his clenched fists.

"I'm an idiot."  He huffs, "Why would — I wouldn't be bothered by you?"

"Texting."  I smile softly.  It does feel — pretty stupid.  "We wouldn't be bothered by texting.  So that's settled?  Right?  We should probably like, call each other sometimes."

I pull my shirt away from my skin and tell myself that it's because the bakery's ovens are on, and not that I'm feeling the slightest bit embarrassed.

I tell myself it's anything but the blatant way Tobias' dark eyes keep traveling towards me.

"So — calling is okay?"

I blush.  This feels silly.  Unfortunately, the dress code still has us in cotton 'Sweet Spot' t-shirts, myself in khakis, and Tobias in his black work pants. It makes for an awkward exchange of stupidity in even stupider clothing.

"I want you to call me."  I'm having a hard time meeting his eyes.  "I should've called you.  I want you — to tell me about your day, or work or whatever.  I'm really bored.  There's like, no one left...."

Tobias leans down.

My gaze follows to where he's reaching, and I realize he's found where I hid my apron yesterday, wadded into a ball next to the shelving fixtures. He hooks his finger through the string of it, dangles it, unimpressed,

"... Do you want to be written up?"

If I felt like being an asshole, I could tell him that the bottle of water he has hidden under his table could very well get him written up as well,

"Ms. Martin is not even here," I scowl, "and anyway.  Don't change the subject."

My tone is defiant, but I'm still reaching for the apron.  I pull it around my neck listlessly, sighing as I pull the straps behind my back.

"What's there to talk about?"  The dark-haired man leaves his station next to me in favor of washing his hands in the sink — splashes it across his face as well, runs a palm down it like some stupidly attractive commercial model, "I mean...."

"This is embarrassing."  He says, at last.

Ah, so that's what the water was for.

He's blushing.

I hum, dragging my eyes away from him,

"It's not that embarrassing," I wave it off and then towards our half-filled rollbacks of pastries.  "It's just a weird conversation to be having in front of pastries."

"I don't think they can hear us."

"Well.  Regardless, I think we're... Supposed to talk about this stuff, though?  I just — I'm not good at it,"  I turn because it all feels entirely cringe-inducing.  "I mean.  I haven't done this before.  Obviously."

Tobias wraps his hands in a paper towel, rubs it up to his forearms as he stares at me, and as I stare back — like we have addressed some awful elephant in the room, and finally can.

It's quiet for a minute, likely because we're both pondering just how long we'll skate around each other and our blossoming feelings —

"Me neither," Tobias says, finally.  Maybe I'm wrong, but he doesn't seem to be all too bothered; he tugs at the top of his shirt like his chest is too hot.  "I haven't dated."

I bite down a swell of happiness at the admission of his inexperience.  Tobias' eyes linger on me for a moment, jaw working like he wants to address something that isn't just this — that maybe his irritation isn't solely from the lack of communicative contact,

"Ah," I bend down to grab the olive oil, to ignore Tobias' scouring regard, "we'll be closing sooner.  If you've seen the new schedule...."

"Will we still be here at four am on Saturday?" He scoffs and tightens the knot on his apron front, but looks frustrated that I changed the subject to hours again before he could get his words together.

"Yeah," I watch Tobias' back as he lifts a stack of sheet pans and deposits them next to my yeast water. It's awkward, a little quiet, and everything a bit off-kilter, "probably."

But he's in my space again, with his thigh close to my hip,

I nod, and I lean past Tobias to grab the kosher salt.  I even start digging noisily for my measuring spoon to interrupt the silence.

I can see Tobias pause from my peripherals and side-eye me from where he stands. He reaches up, latches onto my wrist with a hold that's too gentle for him,

"Is the texting thing," He pauses, waits for me to acknowledge him. There's a sturdy inquiry in his eyes, a slight squeeze of my wrist accompanying it, "... Is that really all that you wanted to talk about?"

I pull my arm back down to me, which in turn, drags his arm down with it. It puts him closer to me, and I find myself blushing again. I swallow, turning my head a bit to distract myself, to push the sheet pans back against the wall with my free hand,

"Well.  No," I mumble, tapping my index finger against the metal, "not really."

"Then tell me." Tobias' gaze slides from my cheeks back up to my averted eyes. We're strangely aware of each other, as we always probably have been.

I clear my throat as his hand leaves my wrist,

"Um. Okay.  So, I was thinking," I play with the strings of my apron, tuck them in-between each other while Tobias waits patiently, and then I lose my nerve.

I want to tell him I'm thinking about that day out by Edmund's lake; I want to say to him how often I think of the night under the honeymoon, of the words exchanged in his front seat, and of his home that I've never seen —

Of a town that he lives in without me.

I want to tell him how proud I am that he's making his way towards happiness, but how worried I am that I'm not by his side,

Tobias searches my expression as I consider which thought that I could pull forth from all of these shifting insecurities, and my hands shake.

I think he knows exactly what I want to say.

So.  He steps closer,

"I was thinking," my voice cracks with another step, eyes averting from him, then back to him, "...Well.  That you've never invited me to your house."

Tobias' eyebrows arch upwards, and his cheeks gather the slightest hint of color as he scoffs.  He  brushes his arm like it's a tic of his when he's nervous, just like I pull at the collar of my shirt,

"Well,"  He shakes his head, but I watch his jaw clench with unsaid words,

"Well?"  I tilt my head.  There's a nervous smile crawling on my face, but I feel my anxiety fading as I cross my arms, "is it haunted or something?"

"It isn't haunted."

Tobias shrugs, clearing his throat as he wraps his hand along the edge of the metal workplace.

"I didn't know if it would seem weird."  He admits, and his gaze flits over my face.  "Inviting you — over."

I stare a bit shyly because his returning gaze seems a bit more playful when he smirks.

"... Didn't know you were already considering coming over."  He tacks on.  I don't know why it makes my stomach flutter a bit, but I find myself twisting my hands together.  "So why don't you, next weekend?"

Tobias doesn't drop his eyes,

"Oh.  Um.  But my car...?" I inhale, finally, trying to ease this growing tension between us, but Tobias' smirk stays in place, "it's sort of like — known for breaking down."

"Then you might have to stay the night," He murmurs, and with a roll of his eyes his smirk edges towards a smile, “just in case."

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