I drift closer to Tanner. Our elbows bump and he gifts me another soft smile.
Jesus. He’s so fucking beautiful. I want to spend another night with him, for real this time. Long, dark hours where we roll around a bed—his or mine, I’m not fussed—and get to know each other a different way.
The fun way. Cos I dreamt about that while we were apart, and the bed I’ve claimed as my own for the next few months was too big and cold to be without him. Iwanthim. And I know he wants me. Maybe—
“Man, you’re thinking so hard you’re gonna have a stroke.”
Tanner has stopped walking. Somehow, I have too, and I haven’t even noticed. We’re halfway to my place. The sea child in me can smell Lake Champlain, but we’re still surrounded by shops and restaurants. Bright colors. Happy people. Even Tanner looks cheerful. Amused. And I dig that so fucking much that I forget myself and close the three inches of space between us.
My face finds a home in his neck. He makes a rough sound that welcomes me in, and wraps his arms around me. It’s more than a hug. His body fits to mine and heat ripples through me. I want to kiss him. Ineedto kiss him. But we’re out on the street, so I settle for hiding in his neck and breathing him in while he holds me tight and ghosts his hand beneath my secondhand coat.
His palm finds the base of my spine, and it reminds me of the night we met, how he seemed to know exactly where I needed him to keep myself upright. I’m in no danger of falling down right now, but I need his touch more now than I did then. It anchors me. And if his deep, measured breaths are anything to go by, maybe, just maybe, it anchors him too.
Shame we can’t stand here all night. Tanner’s soft sigh tells me he feels the same, then he pulls back, and we keep walking. There’s a food cart outside my building. It’s a vintage tea truck that sells hot drinks and thick toast with local butter and jam. It’s an ex-pat’s dream. I sit Tanner on a bench and fetch him a mug of the flowery tea he drinks in the evenings and a plate of strawberry jam-topped toast. He looks at it and laughs. “Sweet tooth?”
“Not as bad as I used to be, but yeah, I like desserts.”
“This is breakfast, though, right?”
“Breakfast for dinner. Love that shit.”
Tanner laughs again. I go back for a second plate of toast and the strong, sweet tea I’m rebuilding my addiction to now that I can afford to eat again. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best dinner ever, and Tanner doesn’t complain. He eats his toast, then watches me hoover up twice as much with his very best amused grin. “You know, for a rugged outdoorsman you’re pretty fucking cute.”
I lick jam from my middle finger, then slowly flip it to him. “I try.”
“That’s the thing, though. You don’t need to.” He leans forward and does something to my hair. It’s takes him a protracted second to pull his hand back, and me even longer to get over the fact that he does it at all. And by then we’re nose to nose again and the urge to kiss him is so strong I fucking choke on it.
I bang my head on his shoulder and groan.
He says nothing when I draw back. Just stares at me with eyes that never end.
I don’t wantthisto end, but I know if I ask him to come inside, something will change between us that we’re not quite ready for.But you want him. And he wants you. But if that was enough I’d have stayed in his apartment.
Doesn’t stop me wishing things were different, though. Wishing that I’d met him ten years ago when I wouldn’t have thought twice about how I felt about him. I wouldn’t have questioned it. I’d have just loved him, and maybe he’d have loved me too.
Tanner stands and tugs me to my feet. “I should go.”
I nod, cos he’s right, but fuck off if you think I’m saying that shit out loud. “I want to ask you to come inside.”
“I know. I want to say yes, but I shouldn’t. I’m still going cold turkey on you.”
“That’s a thing?”
Tanner tips my chin until I meet his gaze. “It’s totally a thing, but I might have the cure.”
“For real?”
“Maybe. You wanna go out tomorrow night?”
“Out?”
“Yeah. I miss eating with you as much as I miss ogling you when you’re not looking, and you promised you wouldn’t leave without getting drunk with me again, so I figure you owe me that.” He’s joking about me owing him, but I see the regret in his eyes as soon as the words leave his mouth. “I don’t mean literally.”
“I know. Damn, am I that fucking sensitive?”
“No, you just deserve clowns like me to choose their words better.”
I will never, ever deserve him. And I don’t need him to trip over his sentences to protect my fragile self-esteem. I’ve been hurt, but I’m not broken. Fuck that shit.
