The spring semester started witha gray sky, wet pavement, and students dragging themselves across campus with the same half-dead energy they had at the end of December. Inside my classroom, the air has felt empty in a way I didn’t expect.
One month.
That’s how long it’s been since Jackson sat in his usual seat, pretending not to watch me while I pretended not to watch him back. I never realized how much space he filled in this room until he wasn’t in it anymore.
While I miss him in class and miss our discussions that were sometimes heated as much with their spoken words as with their unspoken ones, that electric current just beneath the surface, it’s better this way. I don’t want him here, not when I get to have him at home instead.
He says he’s not trying to move in, that it’s only temporary, that he doesn’t want to impose. Every time he says he’ll go back to his dad’s eventually, I tell he’s welcome to stay.
Even when what I really want to say is, “Pleasestay.”
His toothbrush is in the holder next to mine. His jacket hangs on the hook beside mine. There’s a half-finished bag of his favorite chips on top of my fridge, and his textbooks arescattered across my coffee table. He sleeps in my bed every night—on me, against me, curled into me like that’s where he’s belonged all along.
As much as it terrifies me that I’m becoming addicted to something I could so easily lose, I never want to let go of it.
We’ve spent more time talking than anything else. About what recipes we should cook together. About some of his favorite stories and some of mine and ones thathe’swriting. About our dynamic in the bedroom, things like limits and what he might like to try. About us both getting tested and ditching the condoms, which we’ve already done. About his friends, the loved ones we’ve both lost, what we both want from our futures.
One thing wehaven’ttalked about again are the emails. About the stranger who told him to go to the bridge that night. However, the knowledge of it all hasn’t faded. It sits in the back of my mind like a bruise I’m afraid to press on.
Someone knew I’d be there. Someone wanted him there too. Someone might’ve watched.
It makes my skin crawl in ways I haven’t let him see.
He seems to have let it go, but after everything I went through with Dylan, I can’t.
By the time I walk up the steps to my house after a long day of lectures, the dread is a quiet hum below everything else. The moment I step inside and hear the faint sound of water boiling in the kettle, it eases.
After hanging up my coat, I head into the kitchen to see Jackson pouring hot water into a mug. He faces me as I set my bag on the counter, smiling in that way that still makes my heart flutter in my chest.
“Nice timing,” he says as he brings the mug over to the island and sets it in front of me. “Tea’s steeping.”
Steam rises from the cup, and I can already smell the familiar aroma of one of my favorite blends—apple and mint.
We’ve developed a kind of routine already. We leave in the morning at different times and go about our day. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I make it home before him since he has one evening class again. The other three days of the week, he’s home first, and he usually already has the kettle started by the time I walk through the door.
I’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. Or the occasional cleaning he does around the house. Or that one time he fixed my wobbling ceiling fan.
But he seems tolikedoing those things. My boy loves being good and the praise that comes with it.
My boy.
That’s exactly what Jackson is now.Mine.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” I place my hand on the nape of his neck and pull him to me, closing the distance between our mouths. I keep the kiss short and relaxed, moving my lips against his for a few seconds before brushing them against the corner of his mouth and whispering, “My good boy.”
He shivers, and I hold him a little longer until they fade out.
“How were classes today?” I ask as I pick up the chain hanging from the mug and gently swirl the infuser around in the water.
“Still not as fun as yours.”
He makes it sound as though he’s only trying to stroke my ego, and I look up to see him grinning from ear to ear. It’s not that he’s lying, more like teasing me that I need the reassurance. Because sometimes I do.
I narrow my eyes. “You sure do know how to go from being a good boy to a brat quickly.”
He shrugs, his grin growing even wider. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Professor.” He takes a seat on the stool across the island. “How were your classes?”
“Not as fun without you there.”
