The staff had been off for a couple days, he said. That wasn't the time he'd been in Greece; he'd been away longer, Don Juan was fairly sure. So that had to be the time he'd been back. Don Juan's assumption that he was the first thing on Hudson's to-do list on returning to the country was even farther off than he'd guessed. That stung, but it shouldn't have — you're being an idiot, he told himself, because there was no reason to have made that assumption in the first place and he'd already learned an hour ago that it was misplaced. He was getting sore over the same thing twice, and he had no one to blame for it but himself. This was an invented injury; Hudson didn't owe him anything here.

He drifted into the kitchen, a few steps behind. Hudson was achingly attractive. He'd gotten sun in Greece and it suited him. He was magnificently disheveled. Someone else had done that. Maybe had their fingers in his hair, maybe unbuttoned his shirt for him. Don Juan leaned against the counter nearest the kitchen door, utterly miserable.

"Sure, make something," he said. A strategic choice: something from Greece sounded lovely, but if Hudson was cooking then he would be distracted for a few minutes and Don Juan would not be so wholly Observed while he fought through his feelings. In the meantime, he offered a bright smile. "Whatever's easy."

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   Dean Hudson