Milo chuckled softly. “She’s got a point, X. An oddly specific point. As if she’s been studying you like a science project.”
She giggled. “I like to gather data. And you deserve to feel okay, Xavier. You deserve to not hate yourself.”
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I usually kept locked down. I thought about my father, about all the years of being told I was worthless, that I’d never amount to anything. I thought about Marisol, about how I’d failed to protect her. I thought about every reckless decision I’d made, every time I’d courted death because some part of me believed I deserved it.
And then I looked at June, solid and real in my arms. At Milo, injured but alive because I’d called for help instead of panicking. At the evidence that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely worthless.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll go. To therapy.”
June’s face lit up with a smile that made my chest ache. “Really?”
“Really.” I pulled her closer, felt Milo shift to press against her other side. “But I’m going to suck at it.”
“I was so bad at it,” June admitted. “Naming my feelings is not my strongest skill.”
“Thank you,” I whispered into June’s hair. “Both of you. For not giving up on me.”
“Never,” June said firmly.
Milo made a sound of agreement, already half-asleep, his breathing evening out.
Chapter 21
Milo
I was deep ina video edit when the door to the barndominium banged open with enough force to rattle the windows. Xavier stood in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun, his keys clutched in one white-knuckled fist, his chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted the whole way from town.
Therapy must have been intense. This was his second session, though from what I gathered, the first was mostly paperwork.
“How’d it go?” I asked, pausing the video playback.
He didn’t answer. Just paced the room, keys jangling with each jerky movement. His boots struck the concrete floor in an irregular rhythm that spoke of pent-up energy.
“X?” I set the tablet on the coffee table, concern replacing curiosity. “You okay?”
“It was fine. Still getting to know the therapist, but she said I should practice sharing my feelings honestly with the people I love.” The words came out in a rush, and Xavier paced, not looking at me.
My heart kicked up at the word “love,” but I kept my voice steady. “That’s good advice.”
He stopped pacing, turned to face me, his jaw tight with tension. “Okay. Well, I fucking love it when you fuck me.” The confession burst out of him like he’d been holding it in the whole drive home. “I don’t care if it makes me bi or what, but I like having you inside me, Milo. I like it when you take control and make me—” He broke off, his face flushing.
My head snapped up, heat shooting through me. I stood and crossed the space to him.
“Is that really what the therapist meant?” I asked, backing him toward the wall. “Did they say to come home and tell me you love getting fucked?”
Xavier’s back hit the wall, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I don’t know. But it’s honest.”
“You want me to fuck you?” I asked, my voice dropping lower, rougher. I pressed closer, not quite touching but close enough that he could feel my body heat. “Right now?”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “Yeah. But I want to try other stuff too. Want to—fuck, I don’t know how to say it.”
“Show me.” I reached up, gently extracting the keys from his death grip and tossing them onto the workbench. “Show me what you want.”
But instead of showing me, he just stood there, trembling slightly, like he’d used up all his courage on the confession. So I made the decision for him, my hands finding his shoulders, pushing down with gentle insistence.
“Kneel,” I said, and watched his eyes go dark with desire.
He sank to his knees on the concrete floor, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. The trust implicit in his position made my chest tight.
