He smiled. “Tyler.”
The world slowed around us, and the next moment, his lips met mine. It was gentle, tentative at first, exploring until something ignited between us and I melted into his hold. My body relaxed, all tension evaporating as I pressed closer. Even though I was taller, Marcus held me, his arms strong and reassuring. My fingers found their way into his hair, then I deepened the kiss as he sighed into my mouth, sending a thrill through me. It was everything—and I wanted more.
When we pulled apart, both breathing hard, someone cleared his throat.
“Is this a new kind of therapy, Marcus?”
Marcus stiffened and pressed his face into my neck with a muttered “shit.” Then, he straightened and turned to face the man standing in the doorway, who let out a low chuckle. The man was slim, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit and a silktie. His blond hair was longer on top, pushed back, with the sides trimmed close. Neat stubble framed a strong jaw and a crooked nose that looked like it had once been broken and never set right. His blue eyes, sharp and amused, settled on us with a look that blended curiosity and mockery. He was good-looking, polished, and the kind of man who carried money and power like second skin. This had to be Cole—our benefactor—and my stomach sank at the thought I might’ve just blown everything by letting him walk in on this.
“I’m sorry,” I began, on the edge of losing my shit, but Marcus held up a hand and waved at the newcomer.
“Stop frightening people.” Marcus sighed. “Cole Braxton meet Corporal Tyler Mason.”
We shook hands, Cole smiling. “Great to finally meet you, Corporal Mason.”
“Just Tyler,” I mumbled.
“Tyler,” he repeated with a nod. “Marcus has told me a lot about your contributions.”
My cheeks flushed, embarrassment still tugging at the edges of my thoughts. “Thank you, and sorry about… earlier.”
Cole chuckled, waving off my awkwardness. “Please don’t worry about it. I’ve known Marcuslong enough not to be surprised by anything anymore.” He winked good-naturedly at Marcus, who groaned in response.
“This is Tyler, he’s my…” Marcus paused, his eyes flicking toward me, uncertainty softening his gaze for a moment before determination replaced it. He straightened his shoulders, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “He’s my boyfriend,” he finished, his voice steady, and the word sent warmth cascading through me, erasing any lingering doubt about my place at his side. I didn’t have a chance to work through all of the thoughts the word boyfriend inspired in me—panic, maybe.
Marcus shifted the conversation back on track, explaining the vision behind the music therapy program. Cole listened and nodded in all the right places, even rolling up his sleeves to pitch in. He helped maneuver the piano into position when it arrived and unpacked the boxes of instruments and sheet music, placing each item on the shelving that Jazz had helped build. When he left, the room was quiet; the door shut, and it was just us.
“Was that okay?” Marcus asked, his voice hesitant, uncertain. “Calling you that?”
“Yeah.” I paused, nodding to reassure him. “Itwas more than okay, as long as you’re sure you can?—”
He pressed a finger to my lips, then stepped closer and touched my arm. “I’d like it to be true if you’re okay with it. I don’t know if the kids use these terms now.” He huffed a laugh. “I think I’m getting old, but yeah… it sounds good, right?”
A smile curled at the corners of my lips, warmth spreading through my chest. “I’d like that too.”
Marcus’s smile was brilliant, lighting up his entire face, and he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. “Then, that’s settled.”
Marcus turned toward the piano, running his fingers along the polished wood. “Want to hear me massacre some Elton John?” he asked.
“I love Elton John,” I answered, watching as he took a deep breath and sat on the bench.
At first, Marcus’s playing was cautious. The melody was familiar—but the notes faltered under his fingertips. He tilted his head as if he could detect every mistake, or maybe he was questioning whether the piano wasn’t perfectly tuned. Still, he soon found his rhythm, and it was so pretty.
No guitars had been delivered with the other instruments, but that was okay. I wasn’t ready toplay yet. My head was too cluttered with unsaid words and unfinished letters to family. Music was something I would find again, I was sure, but only when I’d cleared the tangled threads inside myself. Until then, listening to Marcus play felt like enough.
“Come here, boyfriend,” he murmured, patting the seat beside him. I sat right on the edge, and he leaned into me. “This is perfect.”
Was he talking about the piano?
Or about me sitting next to him?
I hoped it was a combination of both.
TWELVE
Marcus
Boyfriends wasn’ta label we used in public; it was private.
