15
“What about this one?” I ask, stopping in the open doorway of my bedroom. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done this. The first time I attempted to strike a pose, this time I just lift and drop my arms like it’ll show off the sweater any better. I’m running out of energy.
Khent glances up from the stove, the whisk in his hand scraping the bottom of the pot. “My answer hasn’t changed.”
I grumble, because it’s not a helpful answer.
“Babe, you look fine in everything. You’re stressing yourself out over nothing,” Khent says from the kitchenette.
He’s making some kind of lichen-based soup, which, while it smells good, tastes like absolutely nothing to me. Vaguely reminiscent of cardboard, perhaps. I hope there’s some leftover bouillon cubes in the fridge so I can mix half of one into my bowl.
He’s making soup, I suspect, because I’m starting to stress him out.
I return to digging through my closet, tossing one thing after another onto my bed like a big, uncomfortable nest of nerves. I’ve pretty much run out of outfits to try out, and I still can’t decide what to wear.
“She’s going to love you no matter what.”
“I know,” I repeat for the tenth time. I can’t really explain that this is as much a balm for my anxiety as it is exacerbating it. I do this every time there’s some big event I feel like I’ll be judged just for existing at.
“Then what’s the problem?”
I just kind of grumble and moan through a non-answer. I know it’s not all that important and that as long as I’m not wearing a t-shirt with an obscure gnome metal band, Khent’s mom isn’t going to think much about what I’m wearing.
Still, I wish I had some kind of manual to study. Or a script. Something to fall back on when I talk myself into a corner.
“Meeting your parents went well,” he points out, like he can reason with my thought process.
“I mean, that’s different. I’m pretty sure they still think we’re just dating,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice even, but there’s a hitch of guilt that gives me away. I wince as I drop some more shoes on the ground. “You remember how utterly weird I was about the whole mating bond thing at first. If I introduce it slowly to them, I think it’ll go over better.”
I hear the stove click down to its lowest setting, the creak of the floor under his weight as he goes to sit on my couch.
“How slowly?”
“Maybe we could tell them we’re mated... in a year?”
Khent hums a noise that I’ve now come to understand as ‘why do humans take so long to do anything’.
Some of the time I agree.
I pluck the last few things out of my closet and frown at them. I toss them onto the pile and shuffle back out of my room. I sigh heavily and cross the apartment to flop onto his lap.
Looking up at him, I trace the lines of his jaw with my fingertips. He’s borrowed one of my scrunchies to put his hair in possibly one of the worst buns ever constructed, and the black t-shirt he’s wearing fits his shoulders extra snug. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to seeing him out of work clothes.
“We still have to do all that paperwork for MR now,” I remind him. “Wouldn’t want to break the news until it was at least official.”
“The paperwork isn't going to take a whole year,” he says.