“You can flip it now,” your daughter said.

You held the edge of the frying pan, sliding the spatula beneath the pancake, and flipped it. Quickly, you pulled the blindfold up to your forehead—just in time to see your success.

Serena sat on the counter beside you, focused on her drawing, but still reached out a hand for a high-five.

Before you had the chance to smack it, a loud knock sounded at the door, followed by two more.

You and Serena shared a look of profound suspicion.

“I’ll get it!” she yelled, hopping off the counter faster than you could blink.

You barely rounded the corner into the hallway before your daughter embarrassed you for a third time that day—announcing your guest as Big Hot Mama.

She showed Sevika her drawing, completely unbothered, while Sevika stood there in a tight crop top that showed off her armor—those gigantic fucking arms, locked and loaded. A pair of tight jeans completed the look, but with your daughter right there, you forced your eyes to stay at the most PG-rated level possible.

The drawing was a cartoonish portrait of you, making a disgusted face, with the title “trippophobia”.

In her defense, she was only twelve.

What twelve-year-old could spell trypophobia?

Sevika’s eyes flicked between the drawing and your forehead.

“Is there a reason you’re blessing us with your presence?” you asked, tone flat.

“That can’t be real,” Sevika said, eyes still glued to the blindfold on your forehead.

“What?”

“I just told her that you can’t make pancakes like a human because you start gagging and stuff. Because of the holes.” Your daughter was a little rat.

“A fear of holes. Holes?” Sevika asked, stunned.

A steady shiver licked up your spine, cold as ice. Your throat thickened with disgust, and the next inhale was deep enough for you to choke on.

“Serena, go eat your pancakes before they get cold, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

“Do I have to?”

You grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her around, and gave her a gentle (eh) shove.

“Do I need to call child services?”

“Do I need to punch you in the throat?” you countered. You decided that you didn’t want to risk her coming inside, so you stepped outside.

And how kind of her—to step aside, doing her best not to crowd you—

Sorry. Cage you against the doorframe with that massive arm braced above your head.

How thoughtful.

The action exposed more of her stomach. Sevika was quite literally the only woman you knew who had a more lethal Adonis belt than any man you’d seen. And no man had ever made you want to follow it with your mouth, like she did just now.

Despite Serena’s dad, Adam, and the undeniable proof that you had spread your legs for a man on that one drunken occasion—you were very, very gay.

“You really have a fear of holes?”

“Do you want to make me gag?”

But to your surprise, Sevika didn’t grin. She didn’t smirk, and she didn’t smile. It was the opposite—and you saw a flash of a storm darkening her eyes. It had happened so fast, you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it.

“I found something,” she said, pulling out your phone, the screen spiderwebbed with cracks. Oh, shit.

You reached for it, but Sevika pulled her arm away. Your chest brushed her sternum, her breath hot on the tip of your nose. If you tilted your head back, even the slightest bit, your lips would touch hers.

“How do I know it’s yours?” Sevika murmured, her words brushing your lips the way you wished her mouth did. Stop it.

“You know it’s mine.”

“Do I?”

“I’ll tell you the code.”

“Could be a lucky guess.”

“What do you want, Sevika?”

“You.”

You froze. The heat had started between your legs. It flooded your core like lava—molten, wild. At her admission, it exploded throughout your whole body.

The tension parted your lips before words escaped them.

“No. Give me my phone.”

Sevika reacted like she expected nothing less from you.

“A date.”

“No. I don’t date. I have a daughter.”

“Every other week, ain’t that right?”

“And how do you know that?”

“It’s easy when my backyard’s gremlin-free every second week.”