I want to shake my head, slip my hand under the hem of his shirt, tease my fingers along the sensitive skin of his lower back. I want to hear him gasp or moan or exhale a rough breath, my name on his lips. I want to thrust my hips forward against him, find some relief, some pressure or friction or whatever the hell else will help. I’m achingly hard, and my body is screaming at me to dosomething.
But there’s also something holding me back. Something in his tone, maybe. Or something in the way he’s pressing his hand into me now... like he’s about to fall apart and the only thing keeping him together is that contact.
And we still haven’t talked. There’s so much to talk about, and I can’t keep putting it off forever.
So instead of letting myself go and giving in to arousal and lust and all the other things I’m feeling, I breathe a kiss into his hair and allow my fingers to caress slowly along his forearm again. “You’re tired?” I ask.
“Mmm, yeah,” he hums. “But I’m also just really, really fucking comfortable right here.”
That makes me smile, and I press another kiss into his hair. “Good.”
He tilts his head back and looks up at me, his eyes sleepy. I liftmy hand and brush the back of my fingers against his cheek, my eyes not leaving his, and he leans into the touch in a quiet approval.
I try to talk,again. Yet I can’t seem to force myself to start the conversation. It didn’t go well last time, when I tried to convince him months ago to come to California with me, and there’s a huge part of me that doesn’t want to ruin the moment—this beautiful, wonderful moment where I can justfeelhow much we’re meant to be together.
Dammit.
That thought hits me square in the chest, and all the air leaves my lungs as I continue to hold his gaze. I repeat the touch, caressing his cheek as lightly as I can, and then I close my eyes, lean forward, and rest my forehead against his.
“I like this.” My hand drifts back down to his forearm. “I want this—us—to, um, to be... something.”
He tenses, his hand pressing into me and his body going rigid. But he doesn’t say anything.
Why doesn’t he say anything?
My heart’s racing, and not in the good way it was earlier. I swallow hard, and with every ounce of courage I can muster, I continue. “Nico, I don’t want to go without you. To California, I mean. I want... I want you to come with me.”
My words are ineloquent, but I hope my intention is clear. And I hope they’ll at least jump-start a deeper conversation—a conversation I’ve been avoiding for too long.
That’s not what happens, though. Instead, he does what I should probably have expected, knowing him as well as I do—he pushes away from me. He sits and scoots back until he’s up against the wall, and then he pulls his legs in to sit cross-legged, clasps his hands together in his lap, and stares down at them, his hair falling loosely over his forehead.
It’s painful to know that retreating is still his go-to response,even with everything that’s happened in the last few days, and it feels like our conversation from months ago all over again, even though he hasn’t said a word yet.
I give myself a second and then another, my heart aching as I try to decide what to do. I could give him space, offer to go sleep on the couch or in the extra room. Or I could backtrack, tell him not to worry, we can talk about it another time. Or I could double down. Gently, of course.
When he screws his eyes and clenches his jaw so hard I see the muscles in his neck tighten, my decision is made for me.
Ican’tback away from this. And I think I don’t actually want to, anyway.
We need to talk, even if it’s just me letting him know exactly where I stand and what I want and how important he is to me.
Slowly, I push myself up and then shift so I’m right in front of him, also sitting cross-legged. Then I reach out and gently cover both of his hands with mine. He’s tense and shaking, which fills me with a sadness I don’t even try to deny.
“Nico, I meant what I said this morning and just now,” I start. I squeeze his hands lightly and force myself to continue, needing to get everything out in the open. “I care about you. A lot. Romantically or whatever, yeah, but also, you’re my best friend. Even if you didn’t like me back, I... I still couldn’t imagine leaving you here. I know we talked about this before, but I just can’t... I can’t leave you here, I can’t leave without you, especially now. And I don’twantto. Whatever it is, whatever reason you’re unsure, we can figure it out. Or we can at least talk about it... Please, Nico. Please, let’s talk about it.”
I finally stop my stupid ramble, and I wait for any response from him. But he’s still tense and silent, just staring at our hands in his lap. And with each second that ticks by, another sharp pain stabs through my chest.
Hell, maybe I’ve read this all wrong.
Maybe he doesn’t want what I do. Maybe he’s not as into this as me. Maybe he hates the idea of moving to California so much that he’s willing to give this up.
Or maybe I’m not wrong at all. Maybe he just can’t see a future, no matter how hard he tries.
When he still stays quiet, I try not to hurt, not to pull away myself. But it’s hard, especially when his smile from just a few minutes ago pops back into my head. Bright and joyful and teasing, like I hadn’t seen in so, so long.
I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have taken away that light and happinessbothof us worked so hard for.
With a rush of guilt, I hold his hands tighter and blurt out, “I-I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to upset you. We were having such a good time, and—”
