Blake had agreed surprisingly fast.
At the time, it had felt natural.
Now, however, sitting cross-legged on Myles' kitchen counter while they tried to decide dinner, he realized he might've underestimated how nerve-wracking staying over actually was.
"You're staring at the fridge quite intensely," Myles said from behind him.
Blake blinked, immediately looking away from the open refrigerator. "I'm thinking."
"You've been thinking for six minutes."
"I mean, cooking requires strategy."
The problem was simple.
He wasn't exactly versatile in the kitchen.
He could cook soups. Noodles too, if they weren't anything fancy. Salads were easy because technically they barely counted as cooking.
"So," Blake said, hopping down from the counter, "what do you usually eat for dinner?"
"Whatever is available."
Blake narrowed his eyes. Well, it did make sense, but everybody had preferences, even Myles. The guy just talked like he'd transcended human wants entirely.
