“My chaos?” He arched a brow.
“Yeah. For making me smile.”
“Glad to be of service,” he said with a wink, and then stood, leaned over, kissed me, and held out a hand. “Dance with me.” His words knocked the air out of me. My chest tightened, because it was ridiculous and tender all at once, and for a heartbeat, I almost said no. But the way he looked at me—hopeful, vulnerable, shining—made it impossible. I wanted him, wanted this, even if it felt absurd. So, I took his hand.
I laughed, because it was ridiculous—“Last Christmas” drifting from the speakers, all synths and nostalgia—but I still stood. Wes slid into me without hesitation, fitting perfectly to my chest, his head tucked under my chin, our joined hands warm between us. He settled there with a sigh, as if I was exactly where he wanted to be.
We swayed, not really in time, not really caring. It wasn’t about the dance, not the music, not the mismatched rhythm of our steps. It was about this—about holding on, about not letting go, about pretending for just a little while that the world outside didn’t matter.
Neither of us said the wordfuture.But it lingered between us all the same, sharp and fragile.
“Stay tonight,” Wes whispered, and there was a raw vulnerability in his voice that made my chest ache.He was asking for more than company—he was asking me not to leave him behind, not tonight, maybe not ever.
“Of course,” I said, my throat tight. The words came out rough, but I meant them. I wasn’t sure I’d ever meant anything more.
Wes shifted against me, blinking sleepily up with that sweet, crooked smile that undid me every damn time. His palm rested on my chest, fingers curling lightly, and I bent to kiss him. He sighed into me, opening so easily, and suddenly the air between us was charged as we headed for his bedroom.
I touched him as if he might break, tracing the line of his jaw, the sweep of his hair, learning him with my hands as much as my mouth. His sweater came off in a messy tangle, mine following, and soon we were pressed together, skin to skin, every line of him molding to me. He was beautiful—eyes dark with want, breath catching on a quiet laugh when I kissed the hollow of his throat, body arching as if he’d been waiting for this as long as I had.
We didn’t rush. Every kiss lingered, and when I finally slid into him, he whispered my name, clutching at me as if I were something precious. I held his gaze, and his hand trembled against my cheek as I kissed him through every gasp, until he came apart beneath me, and I followed.
After, we lay tangled together, his head on my chest, he curled closer, as if he could climb right inside me and never leave. His voice was blurred by sleep.
“Don’t leave.”
I’d already promised I’d stay tonight. But that wasn’t what he meant, and we both knew it. My chest tightened, words trapped in my throat. So, I kissed his hair instead, holding him tighter, hoping that for now, in this small corner of time, it was enough.
Wes was warm, breathing even, already asleep, but I lay wide awake with the glow of my phone still burned into my eyes.
Interview confirmed. December 14, 11 a.m.
A Sunday? 7 a.m. LA time? Jeez.
First, an email received on Thanksgiving, then to read the date and time—a Sunday?—as if time zones, holidays, mornings, and nights didn’t mean a damn thing to them. Hell, maybe they didn’t to me either. Not when the promise of tenure or the chance to claw my way back into academia was on the table. Schedules bent for that kind of opportunity. I used to bend with them, never caring if it was midnight or dawn, weekday or weekend. Work first. Always work.
But lying there with Wes curled into me, his breath warm on my chest, the whole idea was surreal. Like a career on the West Coast belonged to another version of me, one who hadn’t learned the sound of Wesley’slaugh or the way he mumbled in his sleep about goats and lanterns.
Sleep was a long time coming. My brain wouldn’t slow, questions circling like vultures. Did I tell him? Did I wait? Did I even want this the way I thought I did? I shoved the thoughts aside, tried to focus on the steady weight of him, the comfort of his hand fisted in my T-shirt.
Later, I told myself. I’d think about it later.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under
I’d deal with all of this in the morning.
But it wasn’t any easier when we woke up and I watched Wes bustle around as if he hadn’t turned my world upside down by existing. His sweater slipped off one shoulder, his long dark hair a mess of waves, his bare feet padding across the worn rug—and it hit me, sharp and dangerous, how easy this felt.
What if every morning started like this? Coffee in mismatched mugs. He hummed while he tripped over piles of books. I pretended to grumble, secretly loving every second. No interview schedules, no frantic job market, no pressure to prove myself to people who barely knew my name. Just us. Here.
The thought lodged deep, both sweet and suffocating.
Because that wasn’t reality. Reality was the flagged email waiting on my phone. Realitywas tenure-track interviews, five- and ten-year plans, chasing the permanence I’d lost. And no matter how much I wanted this—him—I couldn’t build a future on candle stubs and secondhand book piles.
I dragged my gaze back to him, smiling and ignoring the fact that I’d spiraled myself into a corner. “You’re too cheerful in the mornings.”
He smirked, sliding into the chair opposite me. “And you’re too grumpy. Balance.”
I let him believe that, because for a moment it was easier than admitting how badly I wanted what I shouldn’t.
