“This morning?”
A sarcastic reply bubbles up my throat. I swallow it down and wait.
Bhodi shrugs. “I don’t know. I just keep going until I’m done.”
“Sounds like sex.”
“Sex with me?”
“That’s the only sex on my mind right now.”
Bhodi chews, a subtle smirk dancing in his features, but there’s shyness too, an emotion I didn’t get from him last night when he fucked the hell out of me.
I finish my breakfast and wait for him. When he’s done, I take his plate and drop it in the dishwasher, hustling him away from the rest of it before he starts cleaning up. “I have to work, but I like it when you’re with me. I’m distracted as fuck, but somehow I get more done.”
Bhodi runs a hand through his damp hair. “All I did last time was stare at you.”
“Yeah, well. I liked it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The stand-off is brief, but long enough to let me know he’s still having trouble believing I want him around. Can’t lie, it breaks my heart a bit. Even without the intense attraction we share, and the mind-blowing sex, Bhodi is the best company. He’s sweet, funny, and kind. He’s fuckinghealing, and I can’t let him go.
Metaphorically.
Literally.
It’s a struggle to bypass my bedroom and face my crowded desk again, but with Bhodi within arm’s reach, anything feels possible.
I put the radio on. Cheesy Christmas songs fill the space, and later, as the sky darkens with an oncoming storm, the fairylights from that long-ago Instagram post cast a glow that brings a contentment I haven’t felt in years.
It’s not the music.
It’s not the lights, or Rudy snoring in his bed at my bare feet.
It’s Bhodi chilling beside me, working his way through the writing books I dug out for him, his brow furrowed in a concentration that’s so enchanting I have no defence against it reeling me in.
I set my pen down, midnight ink staining my fingers, and edge closer, taking a peek over his shoulder. “Well, look at that.”
“Shh. I’ll fuck it up.”
I watch him glide the nib over the complex letter combination he’s reached in the workbook. It’s not perfect, but it’s a world away from how he was writing when I met him. “Have you been practising?”
“Not like this.” Bhodi finishes the combination with a flourish that makes him wince. “I’ve been trying to follow the rules at work, though, and I haven’t got in trouble for my chicken-scratch notes all week.”
“Maybe you should write like this at work. Give them something to think about.”
“They’d think I’d been body-snatched.” He turns the page and cringes harder. “I never realised how much I could hate the letterS.”
“Why do you hate it?”
“I can’t get it to flow until the next thing. Think I need more practice, but every time I see it, I freak out and turn the page.”
“It’s not about practice.” I press up behind him and wrap the fingers of my good hand around his wrist, guiding himthrough the combination he’s so afraid of. “It’s about accepting things are how they are, and you can be okay with that. And maybe even one day, you’ll find it’s the easiest thing in the world.”
I trace his pen over the letters again. Then I let him do it, but I don’t let go of his wrist. If anything, my grip tightens and the space between us narrows to nothing.
