Weightless. Warm.
Content.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that. Maybe never.
Tucked beneath Warren’s arm, Jude fit beside him as if made to. One of Warren’s locs had come loose and tickled Jude’s shoulder with every gradual rise and fall of breath, making Jude smile. His warmth was everywhere. Solid to Jude’s side, his chest at his back, his breath ghosting his ear. Stable. Protective. Sure.
Safe.
The safest Jude had ever felt. And the purest too, even with the slick reminder of what they’d just done still clinging between them. Because that hadn’t been sex for survival. Sex forbargaining. That had been something else entirely. Something close to a miracle.
And yet.
Questions still itched at him. He had heaps of them. Always did. Curiosity had been in his blood since he was a kid, digging at the sandpit in the park because he was sure he’d find dinosaur bones if he kept looking. His mum used to laugh, tell him his intrigue would be the making of him one day.
Then she’d died.
And left him to her brother, who hated questions. Hated him even more. And from there it was years of walking a road paved by other people’s cruelty.
Until Worthbridge. Tonight.
And the steady weight of Detective Sergeant Warren Beckford’s arm over his chest, anchoring him to a place Jude never thought he’d find—peace.
“You’re incredible,” Warren whispered into his ear, tightening his arms around him. “Really fucking incredible.”
Jude huffed a small smile. Compliments usually came barbed, sharpened into tools of control. Sweetness had never been free. Yet with Warren… it felt unvarnished. Real. And Jude let himself believe it, let himself soak in the warmth after years in the cold.
He pressed a soft kiss to Warren’s forearm. “As are you.”
Warren gave a low chuckle. “Only because you taught me.”
“No.” Jude shook his head gently. “I got the best out of you.”
“Spoken like a true teacher,” Warren teased.
Jude angled his head, catching Warren’s gaze in the half-light. “You really haven’t been with a man?”
“Not like that, no.”
“Then like how?”
Warren exhaled, shifting up and pulling Jude with him, keeping him tucked close. He brushed his locs back. “Coupleof fumbles at uni. Rugby lads. Locker room nonsense. Bit of experimenting. Y’know… lad stuff.”
Jude arched an eyebrow. “You do realise ‘lad stuff’ is what closet bisexuals call it when they don’t want to admit what they are?”
“Yeah.” Warren met his gaze without flinching. “I think I understand that now.”
Jude’s smile was faint, but it held something gentler than humour. He understood. Not everyone came to terms with themselves easily. Some wrote off their first encounters as drunken experiments. Some buried it so deep it curdled into shame. And some lashed out violently rather than admit what they wanted.
But Warren wasn’t like that. Of course he wasn’t.
Jude knew how these things went. Sometimes it took the right person to show how love and desire could be as fluid as breath.
“That all?” Jude pushed, eyes searching his.
Warren dipped down and kissed him. “See? Told you you’re good at spotting what I’m holding back.”
“Call it practice.”
