Malik’s arm lay like a warm, solid beam across Lincoln’s waist. It wasn’t the tentative touch of a colleague or the accidental brush of a friend. It was more. Malik’s palm was flattened over the center of Lincoln’s chest, trapping a pocket of heat that felt more substantial than any blanket.
Lincoln stayed perfectly still, his eyes tracing the faint water stain in the upper corner of the ceiling. It shaped a distorted map of a continent he had spent his life studying from afar, a geography of cracks and peeling paint.
He counted the thumbtack marks near the crown molding. The tiny jagged ghosts of the periodic table he had hung there as a teenager still there. This room was a museum of his formerselves. The studious boy, the repressed young scholar, the man who had eventually moved out.
Malik’s breathing changed. It was a slow, deliberate migration from the heavy depths of sleep toward the shore of consciousness. Lincoln felt the vibration of it against his own spine, a low hum of life that made the radiator’s noise seem distant. He waited, braced for the moment Malik would retract his arm, for the moment the “morning-after” logic of the symposium would take over and the professional distance would be re-established.
Instead, the weight shifted. Malik pulled Lincoln backward, closing the final inch of space until the entire line of Malik’s body was flush against his own. The heat was intoxicating.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Malik murmured.
His voice was a gravelly rumble, the sound of a man who hadn’t spoken in hours, vibrating directly against the shell of Lincoln’s ear.
Lincoln felt a hitch in his lungs. The air in the room was sharp and icy, making the warmth of Malik’s breath feel like a miracle.
“I thought we’d agreed that Hallmark holidays were beneath the dignity of the department.”
“The department isn’t in this bed,” Malik said.
He shifted, the bedsprings groaning. Malik reached over Lincoln to the small oak nightstand. It was a piece of furniture Lincoln’s father had built in the garage forty years ago, sturdy and unyielding. Malik’s fingers fumbled with the drawer before he retrieved a small, heavy object wrapped in a scrap of velvet.
He pressed it into Lincoln’s hand.
Lincoln sat up, the quilt pooling at his waist, his skin instantly prickling in the cold air. He unwrapped the cloth to find an antique brass compass. It was a stunning piece of mid-century engineering, the casing worn to a dull, buttery gold by years of handling.
Lincoln clicked the latch. The needle swung erratically for a moment before shivering toward the north. But it was the inscription on the inside of the lid that stopped Lincoln’s breath at the modern engraving there.
For the way back.
“Malik,” Lincoln whispered. The weight of the metal was light but heavy at the same time. A physical counterpoint to the years of drifting he had felt in this house. “This is...I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t think—”
“I didn’t do this because I expected anything in return,” Malik said, sitting up beside him. His dark skin was a stark contrast to the pale sheets. “I did this because you are one of the most selfless people I know.”
Malik reached out, his thumb tracing the line of Lincoln’s jaw. The touch was a question. Lincoln answered it by setting the compass on the nightstand and leaning in, closing the distance between their mouths.
The kiss tasted of sleep, but it quickly deepened into something far more primal. There was a desperate, quiet urgency to their movements. Malik pinned Lincoln to the mattress, his body a solid, crushing heat.
Lincoln opened his mouth as Malik’s tongue forced its way in again, insistent and demanding. Lincoln met him with a ferocity that surprised them both. They wrestled for dominance in the small room, their teeth clashing, their hands seeking out skin with a frantic, desperate rhythm.
Malik broke the kiss to gasp for air, his forehead resting against Lincoln’s. He looked down at the brass compass on the nightstand, then back at Lincoln. He reached for the hem of Lincoln’s t-shirt, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin ofLincoln’s hip. He paused there, his eyes asking a question that Lincoln wasn’t sure he was ready to answer.
Lincoln sat up a little, helping Malik pull the shirt over his head. The cold air hit his chest, making his nipples harden instantly. Malik didn’t move to continue. He stayed poised over him, his eyes mapping the pale expanse of Lincoln’s torso as if he were reading a forbidden scroll. He traced the line of a rib with a single finger, a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement that made Lincoln’s toes curl into the sheets.
Malik leaned down, his beard scratching against Lincoln’s skin as he trailed kisses down the center of his chest. He stopped at Lincoln’s nipple, his tongue darting out to swirl around the peak. Lincoln let out a choked sound, his head falling back against the pillow. Malik took the small bud into his mouth, his teeth grazing the edge before he began to suckle with a rhythmic, pulling pressure.
Lincoln’s hands found Malik’s head, his fingers gripping what he could. The sensation was a direct line to his groin, a sharp, stabbing heat that made him ache. Malik moved to the other side, his hand sliding down to squeeze Lincoln’s hip, his thumb digging into the bone. The sheer possessiveness of the touch made Lincoln’s vision blur.
Malik pulled back again, his chest heaving. He looked at Lincoln, his eyes dark with a need that felt like a threat. He reached for the waistband of Lincoln’s pajama pants, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He didn’t pull. He waited, his thumb stroking the skin of Lincoln’s lower belly, just above the hair.
Lincoln’s breath was coming in short, jagged gasps. He wanted to scream at him to hurry, to end the agony of the wait, but the silence of the house kept him pinned. He reached down, his fingers fumbling with the waistband of Malik’s pajama pants. He freed him, his palm closing around the thick, pulsing heat of Malik’s cock.
Malik groaned, a sound that started deep in his chest and ended in Lincoln’s mouth as they kissed again. Lincoln worked his hand, his thumb catching on the bead of moisture at the tip, his eyes never leaving Malik’s. He wanted to see the control break. He wanted to see the tenured professor, the giant of the department, reduced to this raw, shaking thing.
Malik gripped Lincoln’s wrist, stopping the movement. He pushed Lincoln’s pajama pants down, stripping him bare in the cold light. He didn’t look away. He stared at Lincoln’s cock, at the way it was already leaking, at the way Lincoln’s thighs were trembling.
“Look at me,” Malik commanded, his voice a low, rough edge.
Lincoln looked. He saw the man who had haunted his dreams last night. The man he hoped he could go back to being friends with once this weekend was over.
