With no new ideas, mostly because my brain is busy alarming me about the dangers of holding it in for long and that its consequences could be mortal, I resort to the one thing left to do: plead. To whom exactly? I don’t know.  I’m not exactly a believer, there could be a lord of traffic for all I know.

“Please, I really need to use the restroom,” I say, desperately. “I promise to stop using Miles shampoo,” I add, trying to bargain.

Miles is my boyfriend for the past three years, but we have only started living together for the past six months. If there’s something that I have learned about him since we move in together is that he doesn’t like—hates—sharing his shampoo.

I keep forgetting to buy mine and often resort to “borrowing” some of him, hoping that he doesn’t notice, which he usually does from how good my hair feels and most importantly, smells after each application—which is how I always get caught.

My phone vibrates. Seeing as I’m no longer driving, and the traffic doesn’t seem to be moving anytime soon, judging that I’m not exactly a danger to anyone, I pick it up, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Hey, are you camping at your workplace?” Miles’ husky voice oozes in my ears, the moment I place the phone against my ear.

I laugh at his joke before replying, “Not in this lifetime.”

“So what’s taking you so long?” he asks.

I know that it has been six months, but the novelty of someone waiting for me to come home hasn’t yet worn off. I doubt it ever will. My lips spread. “Aren’t you a little…I don’t know…how do you say—”

But that’s as far as I get in the sentence because he sternly interrupts. “Finish that sentence, Perkins, and I won’t be blamed for my actions when you get home.”

Home. That word again. My heart flutters and my lips spread even wider. “I was going to say concerned,” I lie, aware that he knows it.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs, but then chuckles.

At first, I start chanting it in my head, for at least three or four minutes before deciding to say it out loud in hopes that it would be effective. Trust me, at this point, I would do anything to silence my bladder that’s asking for relief.

Saying it, just like thinking it, doesn’t work.

“I’m stuck in traffic, but I’m only a ten minutes away,” I explain.

“Okay, I’ll get started on dinner.”

I resist the urge to palm-face myself. I forgot it was my turn to cook dinner tonight. Ever since he and I moved in, we’ve been doing dinner nights, alternating between him and me.

“Dang it! I’m sorry. Do you want me to order takeout?” I suggest.

“Let me guess, you forgot? And no, it’s okay, I don’t mind,” he says.

“It’s on me,” I insist, feeling a little guilty about him taking my turn.

He chuckles. “You really don’t like people helping you, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” I admit, despite knowing that it was a rhetorical question, the answer to that is as clear as it is crystal.

“You are not taking advantage, I’m the one offering,” he says.

“I know but—”

“Nothing. But nothing. Be careful on the road.” He instructs and I hardly open my mouth to reply before he hangs up. It’s funny how time seems to fly when you are immersed in something that you enjoy but decreases—more like completely loses— its speed when you are doing something boring or stuck in traffic like I am.

I’m usually a patient person, but my grumbling stomach and my filled bladder make it hard for me to be. I need to get home as fast as I can, but the heavy traffic is making that almost impossible.

My red Twingo hasn’t moved from the same spot for the past twenty minutes. Twenty minutes!

Knowing that honking at the car in front won’t do much except make me look like a rude person, I decide to take my mind off my current problem.

You don’t need to use the bathroom. You are perfectly fine

Is he being chivalrous? Yes. Do I like it? Absolutely.

The car behind me honks, and it’s then that I realize that the traffic has started moving again. I turn on the engine as I realize that the whole time I was on the phone with Miles, I hadn’t thought about my urge to pee.

Then it hits me. There’s a possibility that the phone call was a reply to my pleading from earlier on. This could only mean one thing: my days of stealing Miles’ shampoo have come to an end.

The urge hasn’t returned yet, determined to have arrived when it hits again, I decide to speed it up a little.

Five minutes later, I’m bursting through the front door, pass by a confused Miles—who was waiting for a kiss for a greeting— with only one goal in mind: get to the bathroom.

“Hey!” I call, as continue racing up the stairs.

“Um, Hi,” He calls, surprise laced in his tone, back before I shut the door.

“Finally, I made it,” I say, not able to resist my urge to sigh in relief.

A few gases later and a comfortably empty bladder later, I’m heading down the stairs, led by the sweet aroma that’s coming from the kitchen.

My stomach grumbles as I enter the kitchen, I guess Miles must have heard me because he chuckles, his back still facing me. “Hungry, are we?”

“Yeah," I reply, feeling embarrassed.

He turns to face me and starts walking toward me, his golden-brown eyes filled with mischief. He reaches me and puts his hands around my waist, pulling me against his chest, and my nostrils filled with his scent.

“Good. But you know nothing is free, right?” He says, seductively.

Miles is still holding me in his arms, my hand gently landing on his chest, feeling his beating heart.

“Yes, really,” he replies confidently and leans down so at to reach my height with the sole objective of getting a kiss from me.

He’s a good guy. Too good for me. It’s at times like these that I realize that. He just jumped in for me to make dinner, and here I am making sure that he works his way to get a greeting kiss.

But I think he enjoys it, or otherwise, his eyes wouldn’t be expressing the overflowing level of enjoyment that his getting from the way I am teasing him.

I push a little against his chest, putting some distance between us and stopping him from getting to his goal: kissing me. In reply, he frowns which just makes me smile even more.

I remove one of my hands from his chest and put it against my chin in the classic ‘I’m thinking about something’ way. I don’t know about that Miles, I mean the air that is currently feeling my lungs seems pretty free to me and—”

But that’s as far as I get in my sentence because he removes my hands from between us, and connects his lips to mine.

This is not the first time that we are kissing, but it never gets old for me. Each kiss is like the first only better.

What started off as an innocent peck on the lips, turns into a full-blown open-mouth kissing session. It would be a lie if I said that I didn’t enjoy it. I do. Liking it doesn’t even begin to cover it. I love it. I love him.

His arms around my waist tightens and my hands, that were sitting at my sides idly, move to his neck and then to his silky truffle-brown hair.

My stupid stomach decides to put an end to our moment by grumbling once again, and he pulls away. He looks at me and I can’t help but blush.

“Sorry,” I say, smiling sheepishly.

He returns my smile with one of his dashing ones and says, “Don’t sweat it.” He takes my hand and starts to lead me out of the kitchen.

“Uh, why are you kicking me out of the kitchen?” I ask.

“To avoid having to explain to you why I don’t like being helped while cooking. You are only going to argue with me and then dinner will burn like last time. So to save both our sanities and time, I’m temporarily kicking you out,” he explains as we reach the dining room.

“You are lucky I’m too tired to argue with you right now,” I reply.

I take a seat at the dining table. “Yeah, lucky me,” He replies in a mocking tone. “Dinner will be served in five.”

With that,he disappears back into the kitchen and then comes back the plates and then the dishes

“Please don’t drool in the pot,” He jokes.

I send him a glare for teasing me while I’m quite literary starving to death. “I’m not.”

He points at something in my mouth. “Uh, the evidence says otherwise.”

I know that I’m not drooling. I only drool when I’m sleeping and that’s how I know that he is lying. But for some reason, my hand decides to wipe the imaginary drool away from my mouth. This small action makes him explode into laughter.

He takes his usual spot at the dining table in front of me once he is done setting the table.

“Screw you,” I mutter under my breath but the way he looks at me surprised—in a teasing way—suggests that the heard me.

His puts his elbow on the table and his fist against his cheek, the classic ‘I’m studying you’ pose. “Since when did we start to cuss?” He asks.

He doesn’t make a move to serve me , so I decide to help myself. “Since you started with the annoying teasing?”

“I started?” He asks, pointing a finger at himself.

Technically, I’m the one that started with the teasing but since I’m not ready to admit it, I just roll my eyes which only makes him laughs, evidently happy that he won our argument.

I’m done serving myself, and wait for him to also start serving himself. He does and settles back in his chair. He likes serving while standing. I have never known why but I’m too hungry to care now.

I finally get to eat. Not wanting to sound ungrateful. I look at him, flashing him my most genuine smile and I hope that he gets just how much grateful I really am. “Thanks, Miles for this.”

That’s all I shoot before I go for the first spoon. Finally.

Miles phone rings and he excuses himself but not before I notice the frown etched on his face upon seeing the caller ID.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” he replies, seriousness lacing his tone which also matches his facial expression, as he stands up and goes back to the kitchen, clearly for some privacy.

We have a strong ‘No phones during dinner’ rule so him receiving a call, breaking his own rule—which is something that he would never do—only says one thing: it must be something serious.

The expression that he had, kills my appetite and I push my plate aside.

“...I will be right there,” he says before hanging up.

A few moments later he emerges from the kitchen, his face a mixture of emotions that despite our staying together, I quite couldn’t decipher them all except for fear and worry.

“Sorry, I have to head to the station,” he apologizes as he reaches for his jacket and shrugs it on.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice laced with the concern that’s creeping in.

He shoots me an apologetic smile. “Remember when I told you that I had a younger brother?”

“Yes?” I reply

“Well, it’s time you met him.”

His hands hung in the way and to be honest I’m too confused to even react.

I clear my throat. “What do you mean?”

He sighs. “It’s not the way I had planned for you two to meet but it looks like I don’t have a choice.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” I echo my original question, hoping that this time his answers will be enlightening rather than confusing.

“He’s been arrested,” He admits, shame lacing in his voice.

“Oh.” I reply, too surprised to come up with a polite response to that.

“Yeah, I have to bail him out.”

I guess a relative being arrested is always better than all the scenarios that had been playing in my mind from the moment that he picked up the call.

He opens the door and steps out but stays at the doorstep holding the door open. He’s actually inviting me to come with him.

Not wanting him to feel like he’s obligated to let me tag along, I say, “Are you sure that you want me to come?”

He looks at me confused. “Why shouldn’t I?”

I look down at my feet. “I don’t know. It seems like a family thing and I don’t want to—”

“You have already met my mum. You are family,” he says, confidence lacing his voice.

Family. Home. Why am I blushing so hard? Stop. Blushing.

Now’s not the time to think about you. His brother is at the police station for crying out loud.

Convinced that he’s genuinely OK with me tagging along and that he’s just not feeling obligated to, which makes my heart swell, I pick up my jacket and join him.

We get to the car in no time and in a few minutes we are already on the main road. A few minutes pass and a side from our earlier exchange, he hasn’t said anything. His eyes are firmly trained on the road.

This Miles is nothing like the one from earlier this evening. He’s worried about his brother.

Deciding to try to keep his mind from thinking, I say, “So your brother, huh?”

I resist the urge to facepalm myself. I was supposed to take his mind off his whole brother thing not bring it up?.

Quick. Change the conversation. I’m about to change it when he says in a monotonous tone. “Yep, my brother.”

“It’s going to be okay,” I console.

“Yeah, it will except him. Once I’m done with him.” His eyes are still trained on the road.

He seems stressed and he’s actually too angry to drive despite him trying to play it cool. For his safety and mine, I propose, “Do you want me to take the wheel?”

He throws me  a glance before putting his eyes back on the road. “I’m okay.”

He must have sensed me not being convinced by him because he adds, “I really am ok.” He reaches out and grabs my hand and gently squeezes it.

Its warmth extends from where it’s touching my hand, extends to my upper hand and ends up in my heart. I trust him.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t remove his hand and I don’t complain. I don’t know if it is for moral support, or to convince me that he’s doing okay but I love the feeling. The warmth. The softness.

“What do you wan’t to know?” he asks, this time a little less tensed, which I’m glad for.

“What makes you think that I want to ask you anything?” I ask.

“Because I know you.”

I don’t even bother denying it. The gigantic smile that I had from earlier on creeps up on my face and I’m glad that it’s dark that way he won’t be scared by my joker-like smile.

“Why is he at the station?”

“DUI.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” His knuckles turn white and I realize it is because of how hard he is holding the steering wheel.

He sighs once again. “You do have another question,” he states.

Since he doesn’t seem all that excited about answering any questions, I say,” No, it’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“Go on. I’m sorry it’s just that I would have expected him to be a little responsible by now, I guess that’s what I get for being so overprotective of him.”

I can’t get him to look at me for the next words that I need him to hear, so I resolve to uncomfortably holding his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. Things happens.”

“No you don’t get—”

“I don’t need to know your history to no that you didn’t lead him on to the path that he has chosen, Miles.”

In reply all he does is sigh once again for what seems like the eleventh time and my heart aches for him.

“So why isn’t he asking your mum?” I ask genuinely curious. I would have called my mother if she were alive. That’s for sure.

“The whole point of him calling me was so that she wouldn’t know, telling her upfront kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?” He asks and laughs humourlessly.

“It’s not your fault,” I repeat for emphasis.

“It is. Had I been a bit hard on him he would have turned out to be a better man.”

I know the words that will come out will hurt but they have to said. He can’t put on this on himself. “You are not your dad. Whatever you did for your little brother was out of love.”

He shakes his head. “That’s the problem, maybe I should have learnt another way of doing it.”

“Your brother is lucky to have you, and so is your mum.”

He doesn’t say anything else and I start thinking that maybe I had overstepped. But I don’t mind overstepping if it means that I don’t have to watch him beat himself up for something that’s not even his fault.

I would know. Not having a family didn’t turn me into a felon of the law. It’s not that I’m judging or anything.