He laughs, big and loud and real, and I want to bottle that sound. “Typical. Always the overachiever.”
“What can I say?” I preen, flipping an imaginary strand of hair. “Some of us have standards.”
His knuckles brush my cheek, and for a moment, he’s serious again. “I’m going to meet them,” he says quietly. “Exceed them. Blow them clear out of the water this time. Whatever it takes.”
I want to believe him. And maybe, for the first time, I actually do.
“Fine,” I say, trying to sound bored and only half succeeding. “But only because you’re cute and I’m weak.”
His mouth curves in that slow, dangerous way I remember. “You’re not weak. You’re the bravest person I know.”
If I have any backbone left after that, it’s only because I refuse to admit defeat.
He kisses me, slow and thorough, and it feels like coming home. Like the years between us have just…evaporated, leaving only this moment, our hearts beating in time. When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathless.
He grins, a little dazed. “Wow.”
I lick my lips, just to be difficult. “Don’t sound so surprised. I haven’t even gotten to the good part.”
He raises an eyebrow, all challenge. “And what’s that?”
I lean in, teeth grazing his ear. “You’ll have to stick around and find out.”
He shivers. There’s a faint blush creeping up his cheeks, and it’s unfairly adorable.
For a while, we sit tangled together on my too-small couch, letting the world spin on without us. It’s peaceful in a way I’m not used to. Like maybe I don’t have to be on guard with him anymore.
I glance over at him, content and smug, like he’s just solved a really hard math problem. “So,” I ask, because someone has to break the spell, “what now?”
He traces slow circles on my knee with his thumb. “Now we order food, because I’m starving. Then maybe we watch a movie, and you let me spoil you for an hour or two?”
I pretend to consider it, tapping my chin. “You do realize that if you order from anywhere but Reindeer Roadhouse, you’re dead to me, right?”
He looks personally offended. “Obviously, the Roadhouse. Is there even another option in this town?”
“There’s the sad little sushi place that only exists for tourists and masochists.”
He grins, already pulling out his phone. “You, me, Roadhouse burgers, and a terrible Christmas movie. Name a better night.”
He pauses, glancing over at me, softer now. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I believe him.
Chapter Eight
Miles
I do not, in fact, name a better night. Instead, I end up sprawled on May’s too-small couch, two enormous burgers between us, a bottle of wine, well, two bottles, open on the coffee table, and the kind of Christmas movie that looks like it was made for six dollars and a coupon for spray snow playing in the background. May’s legs are tangled with mine, his head pillowed on my chest, and I keep thinking it shouldn’t be possible to feel this easy with someone after all those years apart. But here we are.
We talk. We laugh so loud we miss whole chunks of the movie and have to rewind. May’s hands drift up and down my arm, always moving, the back of his knuckles brushing my skin like he can’t stand the idea of not touching me for even a second.
At some point, the credits roll, and the only thing I can think is how badly I want this to last. Not just tonight, but for as long as I can possibly have it. I want to memorize every sound May makes when he laughs with his whole body, the way his eyes go glassy with pleasure when I kiss that spot under his jaw, the way he looks when he’s got both his walls and his makeup down and is just…himself, with me.
Not gonna lie, I definitely end up staying the night. I’d like to say it was chaste, but let’s not get ridiculous. We make out like teenagers, desperate and greedy, and if the rest ofthe queens downstairs weren’t already aware of his stamina, I sincerely apologize for the structural damage to the building.
By the time I finally drag myself home at sunrise, hair a mess, a hickey on my neck, a bruise on my hip I can’t account for but strongly suspect was caused by an overzealous couch arm and a competitive lap dance, I’m already counting the hours until I see him again.
Which brings us to now. Monday evening. Our first real date, maybe ever. And I am pacing around the living room of my ridiculous, over-the-top rental cabin like a contestant on some queer version ofThe Bachelor, except instead of roses, I am holding a literal bouquet of wildflowers and a cheese board I am terrified I’m about to drop.
