There was half a second where Rye almost seemed ready to pull his hand back. He blinked and stiffened a little as his hand froze there, and then he huffed a little laugh.
Jake narrowed his eyes, but he smiled at Rye’s silly, surprised expression. “What?”
“I hadn’t expected your beard to feel like... this.” There was slightly more pressure this time as Rye’s hand settled against his cheek. “It’s, um, coarse. And I probably should have known that it would be,” he added with a small shake of his head.
Jake was about to respond with something quiet and simple, but he stopped himself as Rye’s eyes began a slow, intentional path upward, carefully studying Jake’s face and then his hair. And the little twinkle in Rye’s eyes grew.
“Your hair is soft,” he explained, and he reached up and slowly ran his fingers through Jake’s hair, brushing back the few strands that had fallen over his forehead.
God.
Jake closed his eyes, and heat shot through him as Rye repeated the action.
“For some reason,” Rye continued, “I just imagined your beard would be soft, too, which doesn’t make sense, I know.”
“Uh, yeah, I . . .”God.
Rye’s fingertips grazed down along Jake’s temple and then his jaw. Then Rye’s hand left his face and settled right in the center of his chest, right over his thrumming heart, the touch just bursting with warmth and tenderness. Jake sucked in a breath and opened his eyes halfway to see Rye sitting there, staring at where his hand rested, his lips pursed together.
“Jake?”
“Hmm?”
Rye’s hand pressed into him a little more.
“I want to kiss you again. Later.” Rye lifted his eyes, as though he’d known Jake was watching him. “I’m not sure where yet. Maybe...” He trailed off, but his gaze flitted down to Jake’s lips, and his cheeks turned the most adorable shade of pink.
Jake almost groaned, but he caught himself, and instead, he slowly brought his hand around and set it atop Rye’s on his chest, caressing Rye’s smooth skin with his fingertips.
It was Rye’s turn this time—he closed his eyes and made a little sound that was somewhere between a hum and a whimper.
“I’d like that,” Jake said softly.
“I think I would too.” Rye tilted his head a tiny bit, thoughtfully almost. “But first”—he opened his eyes and looked up at Jake with such tenderness that Jake’s heart stuttered—“the beach.”
He gave a small nod. “The beach.”
Rye pushed away and stood up in a smooth, graceful motion. Then he offered Jake his hand with a light smile. “PT stuff first, actually, because you have to do that every day, right? And then breakfast... andthenthe beach.”
Hope fluttered in his chest as he looked up at Rye. Hope and that other emotion he’d been feeling so strongly—the one he was sure was love. He reached up and took Rye’s hand. “Yeah, okay. And, uh, thank you.”
Those words didn’t seem to be enough, but they were all he had right then. He glanced past Rye and out to the patio, to the stairs, to the foggy cliffs beyond.
Today . . . would be the day.
“Come on, slowpoke.” Rye tugged lightly on Jake’s hand. “Heel raises first, right? You do about a billion, and Itryto do a set of ten or fifteen.”
Jake laughed, then grunted as he not-so-smoothly-or-gracefully pushed himself up off the ground, letting Rye’s grip steady him. “It’s notthatmany.”
“Maybe not quite. But almost.”
Jake shook his head with another laugh, and he looked down at his boyfriend, who squeezed his hand, sending a warm fuzziness all the way down into his toes. Could hebeany more perfect?
Rye smiled softly. “Ready?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
Thick,chillyairfilledhis lungs as Jake stepped out onto the patio, Rye following just behind him. The morning fog still hung close to the ground, obscuring his view beyond the nearest of the dark, rocky cliffs. But up and behind him, he could feel warmth beginning to seep through the low, heavy clouds—the sunlight fighting to burn off the marine layer.
