I invite you for the bbq but the only buns there are mine

You showed up for the barbecue not knowing the only petite thing on the menu would stop you cold the moment you walked through the gate.

You find your eyes dropping immediately, pulled down by the curve of those buns — round, bare, impossibly smooth against the warm afternoon light. You feel your throat tighten. You grip your drink a little harder than you mean to.

You already know the grill is going cold. You are not thinking about food anymore. You are thinking about getting your hands on exactly what you were just invited here to see.