Because it’s 5:49 in the goddamned morning.
Yet there he sits, showered and shaved and dressed like a grownup. Tie’s even tied.
Meaning…
Hmm.
Not sure what that means, because Declan’s car wasn’t in the parking garage, and it looks like his office door is open, but the light’s not on.
I veer toward George’s door, because other than literally for an emergency, he’s never in the office this fricking early.
Hell, he’s neverconsciousthis fricking early.
I stand there for a moment in his doorway. “Umm… Hey.”
He looks up and I hate that his smile is so tentative. “Hey.”
I’m still not used to him wearing glasses and I should be. But every time I see him in glasses, I remember driving him to the optometrist after he got back, a couple of days after the memorial, because his vision was still blurry and wasn’t getting any better. Having to help him pick out frames that looked good on him and didn’t make him look like a grandpa or a goober, per his request.
His near panic attack over the whole thing, at the time, because he was still healing and wasn’t driving because he couldn’t physically do it yet, and EPU didn’t want him driving.
And he was still trying to adjust to being home without Ellen there.
How he cried when he said out loud he wondered if Ellen would like the frames I helped him choose…then it hit him she wasn’t waiting at home to see them.
I motion to the office in general. “Sooo…”
He leans back in his chair. “‘Then Muhammad must go to the mountain.’”
I step inside his office and close the door behind me but I don’t set any of my stuff down. “You guys didn’t call or text.”
He scowls. “I thought Declan texted you.”
“I meant beyond that.”
“Oh.” He studies me for a moment. “Well, you said you wanted time and space, sweetie. Since I’m not a TARDIS…”
It takes me a moment, and he’s not giving me anything. Not that I can blame him. “Who went over to my house? Him, or you?”
“Him. I didn’t tell him to. He asked permission, and I told him he needed to decide that on his own. I’ve actually putthat…activity on hiatus since last Sunday.”
I blink, confused.
He adds, “It’s just Declan and George, for right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said.”
“How can you just…switch it off?”
“Until wefixthis between us,” he softly says, “the last thing I feel is dominant, or even like having sex.”
I don’t know how to process that, and I don’t feel right asking deeper questions about it. Technically, it’s not really my business, I suppose. “Where is he?”
“Probably still at the house, if he isn’t on his way in already.”
“He hasn’t texted me yet.” My personal phone vibrates in my pocket. “Never mind, I think he just did.” This doesn’t feel right or easy between us like life used to. I wantthatback, even with part of me hating him.
