Right.
There were two more days of injections, another day to aspire the fertile ova the stimulation process had created, and then a period of five days before the collected, fertilized ova were ready to be placed back inside Mal. Eight days. A little more than a week. Vincent breathed out noisily through his nose. Eight days was nothing, but when it came to the passion he shared with Mal, it was an eternity. The contrast between the two lines of thought—the dissociation between the logical and the emotional parts of Vincent’s quandary—battled inside of him, one side gaining the upper hand, only to be torn down by the other. Teenage compulsion—the kind he hadn’t faced since, at the tender age of sixteen, he’d decided that if he couldn’t act like a typical omega, that he’d devote his heart to the most aggressive alpha he could find—drove him to want to skirt logic, consequences be damned. But Vincent wasn’t a teenager any longer, and his life wasn’t dictated by curfews and the pittance earned from part-time labor. Nikki, the person he loved more than anyone else, depended on him.Maldepended on him. When he quieted the unruly part of his mind, the answer became clear.
PG-13 seemed like a good compromise.
Eight days,Vincent wrote.No touching below the belt. Chaste kissing, if we see each other in person. No dirty talking.
That sounds right to me,Mal replied.
That was doable. It was a hell of a lot better than losing Mal entirely.
Soon enough, the trial would end, and the selfish, petulant part of Vincent’s mind would leave him be. He’d take Mal, pregnant by his hand, and lay his claims.
I really appreciate you going to this length to keep me as a subject in the trial,Mal added after a pause.You didn’t have to. You could have called it off the very first day. I don’t know if I can ever tell you how thankful I am that you didn’t.
At that, Vincent smiled. As dire as the situation was, together, they’d be able to get through it.I don’t think I could deny you anything you had your heart set on. You’ve got me woven around your little finger.
You’re sweet.
When can I see you again? Outside of the clinic, I mean.Vincent glanced out his window. Across the parking lot, a young family loaded into a sedan. Would it be his future? Nikki to look after, a pregnant boyfriend to dote on, and, eventually, a baby to adore. Slow-moving, billowing warmth spread behind his ribs and infused his lungs. The air sweetened from the anticipation of the future he wanted—a domestic life shared with a co-parent who respected him, and who might bear his children, should they be so inclined. A future where Vincent was the same man on the outside that he was on the inside, and one where no one thought otherwise.
Strong. Capable. Proud.
In Aurora, with Mal, it was all within his reach.
What about tomorrow after work?Mal asked.If we’re going to be keeping it PG-13, maybe I could come over to your place this time… meet Nikki. Do you think it’s too early?
The domestic future Vincent envisioned came to life in vivid detail. Nikki, who loved everyone, peering up at Mal quizzically, her hands on her hips. Mal, smiling in the same sweet way he always did, just as glad to meet her as she was to meet him.Too early? For Nikki? Never. I can talk to her about it after I pick her up from daycare and see what she thinks. If, for some reason, she’s not comfortable, we’ll make other plans, okay?
Sounds good to me.
The anticipated disaster had never arrived, and from its deconstruction sprang up hope that gave Vincent’s life new structure.
Eight days. No touching. A future more beautiful than Vincent ever could have dreamed.
Easy.
Vincent turned the keys in the ignition, reversed, and exited the parking lot. There was a little lady he had to have a conversation with, and if he was lucky, their talk would go just as well as the one he’d had with Mal.
29
Mal
Stone houses lined Lincrest Avenue, new constructions with tasteful facades and immaculately kept lawns. Large bay windows overlooked the street, glass panes shimmering in the dreamy light of the dying sun. White concrete sidewalks met the edge of each property, dividing thousands of dollars of landscaping from the small, city-owned plots of land that protected the sidewalk from the street. Despite the late hour of the day, few cars lined the side of the street, but Mal saw no signs prohibiting parking. Perhaps, with their long driveways and their garages, the residents of Lincrest didn’t need to park on the street. After living in the city for as many years as he had, that was an unimaginable luxury.
Mal slowed as he drove, taking his time to check the addresses of the houses he passed. The address Vincent had given him would lead him to one of the cliffstone behemoths, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t miss it. When, at last, he came across Vincent’s house, he pulled to the curb and parked. A catalpa tree grew in the city-owned plot of land next to the street, shading Mal’s car and part of the surrounding property.
For a moment, Mal allowed himself to sit and wonder at the house. Home ownership had always seemed like such a waste, even after he’d come into money. With only himself to house, and only himself to look after the cleaning and the upkeep, buying had felt like a mistake. Seeing where Vincent lived was enough to make him doubt that decision.
Like the other houses on the street, Vincent’s home was made of stone. The light gray facade was accented by a dark wooden door with a domed frame, flanked on either side by sconces that were yet to be lit. The garage door, located to the right of the house, faced street-side and was done in the same dark wood as the front door. The house’s shingles, although not an exact match in color to either door, were close enough to be visually striking. There was importance to this place, even from the outside looking in, that Mal had never felt from the apartments he’d lived in.
It took a space that Mal usually thought little of and turned it into a place that felt like home.
“Okay,” Mal murmured to no one. “You’ve got this. It’s just a house.”
Still, he wasn’t sure. Bringing Vincent back to his apartment had been easy. Back then, Mal hadn’t known to be ashamed of where he lived. The rooms, the layout, and the furniture had served their purpose—he hadn’t been aiming to impress. But now, stepping into Vincent’s immaculate world, Mal felt like he was trespassing. This was the home Vincent had bought for his family—the place where he raised his daughter and enjoyed time off his feet after a long day at work. Would it really be okay to intrude on something like that?
The only way to know was to try.
