He couldn’t fix that, couldn’t bring him back, but maybe, just maybe, he could make that smile reappear, do something to ease Apollo’s heavy load.
He was about to shove the food in the fridge, same as he would at home, but when he opened the doors, he had to do a double-take. The condiments in the door were arranged by size, something Dylan had never seen before, and the interior of the fridge was full of neat—like freaky neat—stacks of labeled plastic and glass containers, all done in blocky, masculine handwriting. The leftover meat had already been labeled and flat-packed into storage bags.
Trying not to upset whatever organization system Apollo had going on, Dylan carefully slid the leftover vegetable tray in, and put the ketchup and mustard back in the height-appropriate spots. A little hunting revealed a pantry that made the fridge look disorganized in comparison, what with labels on shelves and jars and stacks of plastic bins. However, the labels made it easy to put the leftover chips where they went, grabbing bag clips for them from the tidy row of clips on the inside of the pantry door. Yeah, Dylan could totally get used to this level of neatness—his mother’s pleasantly cluttered kitchen always drove him crazy with nothing in the same spot twice.
He slid the empty platters into a space-age-looking dishwasher, then started wiping down the counters, which honestly were already in pretty good shape, but Dylan was pretty sure that “pretty good” was never enough for Apollo.
“You didn’t have to do that. But thanks.” The man himself walked back into the kitchen, idly rubbing his shoulder. Dylan wished he knew him well enough to offer to rub it for him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try to touch Apollo now and risk this whole arrangement before it even started.
Someday though... Dylan pushed that thought aside before it could take hold. He knew full well how dangerous crushing on Apollo could be. And he wasn’t the same kid he’d once been. He was smarter now.
“No problem.” Dylan replaced the sponge in the sink.
“You probably already saw the meal plan.” Apollo gestured at the fridge. “I cook in big batches on my days off, then we eat according to the schedule.”
“You cook? Not your mom?”
Apollo laughed, a deep, welcome sound. “No. She’s terrific with the kids and makes a decent sous chef, but I do most of it. My own grandmother lived with us when I was growing up, and she used to joke that the cooking gene skipped a generation.”
“I hear you there. I had to learn a lot of kitchen stuff out of self-defense. And I can help you while I’m here—”
“Oh it’s mainly just reheating.” Apollo waved the offer away before gesturing at a big binder on the counter. “Now this is the master plan—it has the bedtime and morning routines, emergency contacts, monthly shopping lists, all in one place.”
“Impressive.” Dylan opened it to reveal page after laminated page of routines and schedules. He wasn’t sure where, exactly, the family had spontaneous fun, but it wasn’t his place to question. I’ll just have to bring the fun myself. “So when do you need me here by? I’ve got the start date for the day camp, but I can come a few days earlier to coincide with your mom’s leaving.”
“I don’t need you—”
Oh that cut. It was going to be a damn long summer convincing Apollo otherwise. “You’ve made that point. When would you prefer me here by?”
“Sorry.” Apollo scrubbed at his jaw. “I don’t mean to be rude. This...isn’t easy. We’ve got a whole routine and everything going.” Weariness laced Apollo’s words, and he looked away.
It was a rare, candid glimpse at the man behind the mask and Dylan’s breath caught. Apollo wasn’t just older than he’d been eight years ago, he was transformed—crafted by grief and sadness into someone Dylan didn’t quite recognize.
“Hey.” He risked a touch, putting a hand on Apollo’s arm. Damn, he was solid. “I won’t be trouble. I promise. My whole job is to make things easier on you.”
Apollo laughed but he didn’t shrug off Dylan’s hand. “You? You’re bound to be trouble.”
“Yeah, but the good kind.” Dylan winked at him before he realized what he’d done. This wasn’t one of his friends. This was Apollo, who wasn’t going to welcome his flirting with anything other than mild irritation.
But Apollo surprised the hell out of him by laughing again. “Let’s hope so.”
It wasn’t much as far as moments went, just two guys teasing, but it felt like something of a victory, earning a laugh from the guy who was all-too-serious and all-business these days. For an instant, the years fell away and there was the guy Dylan had once known. And Apollo had it all wrong—it wasn’t Dylan who was trouble. It was Apollo and his unerring ability to hit Dylan square in the feels.
*
Apollo liked how Dylan thumbed through the binder, going page by page and asking intelligent questions, unlike a lot of Apollo’s friends who thought his level of planning was a bit...excessive. Or even Neal, who used to tease him incessantly about his micro-managing tendencies. God, I miss that.
“What does I-O-B mean?” Dylan asked, pointing at a spot on the laminated bedtime routine page.
“In own bed.” Apollo didn’t especially like confessing how his careful plan didn’t always work. “They often end up in each other’s beds. Or both in mine.”
“Cute. I slept with my parents so much at that age that my mom got me my own pillow and blanket for their room so I’d stop stealing hers.” Dylan gave him an indulgent smile, not like the judgmental preschool teacher who’d suggested he get a lock for the twins’ door. “Any special toys they sleep with that I should know about if you’re working late and I’m putting them down?”
“Chloe has a doll in a bee costume. She calls it Bee Baby. And Sophia has a stuffed elephant she calls Kitty. Expect to spend a lot of time hunting them down.” Apollo reached across Dylan to grab a pen so he could annotate the bedtime sheet.
“I’m on it.” Dylan had a great laugh—deep and rich, like his surprisingly husky voice. And all of a sudden Apollo was all too aware of how close they were standing, him crowding out Dylan so that he could write on the page, Dylan not taking a step back.
Hell, he could smell Dylan’s aftershave, some sort of ocean-y scent with a hint of mint that managed to be both young and hip and infinitely appealing.
What the fuck are you doing thinking about his smell? Apollo shoved the cap back on the pen, put it in the holder, and moved to the other side of the counter. Dylan was about to be the babysitter, and he was Dustin’s little brother. He didn’t get to smell good. Period. End of story.
“So you said you have references?” Apollo said hurriedly, trying to get this back on employer/employee footing and away from land mines like aftershave and impossibly long eyelashes that made even teasing winks far sexier than they needed to be.