Atticus hadn’t really liked Kendra, but he hadn’t wanted her dead, so he kept the apartment and paid the decorator double to just do whatever she wanted and not bother him about it. On any given day, he barely even noticed where he was, anyway. He worked most nights until dark and then came home and went to bed, except on the nights when he was working for his father, and then it didn’t really matter where he bedded down for the night as long as protocols were followed.
Atticus slipped on a pair of athletic shorts, stiffening when Jericho’s arms came around him from behind. “What are you doing?”
Jericho chuckled. “Hugging you.”
“Why?”
Jericho kissed his shoulder, lips lingering as his hands splayed over his belly. “Because I like touching you. You smell good, and you’re warm.”
Atticus did his best to relax. “Oh.”
“You really don’t get touched very often, huh?” Jericho mused.
“I was raised in a family of psychopaths. We aren’t real big on cuddles.”
“Not even your father?” Jericho questioned.
“My father did his best with us. He was always very aware of our bodily autonomy. If we didn’t want to be hugged or kissed, he kept his distance.”
Jericho inched back. “Does it bother you?”
Atticus snatched Jericho’s hands before they could slip from around him, pulling them back into place and holding them there in case he tried to leave again. He leaned back, liking the feel of their skin touching. “No. I just… I don’t know how to process affection.”
Once more, that infuriating chuckle. “You don’t have to process it, Freckles. You just have to feel it.”
Atticus shook his head. “I don’t feel things. At least, not the things youwantme to feel.”
Jericho pressed a kiss behind his ear, then at his hairline. “I don’t want you to feel any kind of way. I just want you to accept that you like my touch. You’re a doctor. You have to know people require touch. That it’s therapeutic.”
“I’m not most people.”
Atticus felt himself start to protest further when Jericho stepped away, but then he was taking his hand. “Come here.”
Atticus let Jericho pull him towards the bed. He watched as he slipped off his shoes and then laid down, patting the spot beside him. Atticus followed him down hesitantly. When he went to lie on his back beside him, Jericho made a noise. “Uh-uh. Head on my chest. Just wrap yourself right around me, Freckles.”
Atticus stiffly did as he asked and intended to stay just as he was. Jericho needed to know he wasn’t capable of this sort of intimacy. Jericho’s heartbeat thudded beneath his ear, his fingers absently playing at the nape of his neck before petting through his hair.
Jericho’s chin brushed the top of Atticus’s head as he said, “Tell me about your day. What was your family drama?”
Atticus had no intention of doing that. But when he opened his mouth to say as much, what came out was, “My brother’s in love with my dad.”
Jericho’s fingers paused at his hairline for a count of ten before he started to stroke him again. “Wow. That’s…”
“Yeah,” Atticus confirmed.
His lids grew heavy as Jericho said, “But your brother’s adopted like you, right?”
Atticus nodded. “Aiden wasn’t like the rest of us. He was way older when Thomas took him in. He was supposed to be the last. There were going to be six of us. But then, suddenly, he brought Aiden home and he was already sixteen, almost seventeen. Adopting him never made any sense to the rest of us, especially when my dad went out and adopted Adam. Then there were seven of us.”
“Does Aiden live around here? Is he the one who told you that?”
“Nobody told us. Not officially. Aiden sent my father papers to dissolve his adoption. It sent him into a tailspin. Lucas and Noah said it’s because Aiden is in love with my dad.”
Jericho’s fingers dug deeper, blunt nails dragging over Atticus’s scalp, leaving an almost sedative-like calm in their wake. “Do you think they’re lying?”
Atticus felt his hand come to rest on Jericho’s belly. “No. I think we just didn’t see it. It makes sense in hindsight. He’s constantly saying that Thomas isn’t his dad, just ours.”
“Do you think they’ve…” Jericho trailed off.
