Keaton added a second finger, curling both just so, finding that spot that made Jules see stars. They cried out, back arching sharply, hands fisting in the sheets. Keaton worked them open with deliberate patience, scissoring his fingers, stretching them in preparation.
By the time he added a third finger, Jules was incoherent with need, their body slick with sweat, trembling on the edge of release. “Now,” they pleaded, reaching for him. “Need you now. Please, Keaton.”
He withdrew his fingers slowly, smiling at Jules’s whimper of loss. Reaching again for the nightstand, he retrieved a condom, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. Jules watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he rolled it on, their tongue darting out to wet their lips.
Keaton positioned himself between Jules’s thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against their entrance. He paused, eyes locked with theirs, waiting for permission.
“Please,” Jules whispered, their hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I need you inside me.”
Keaton reached for the lube again, slicking himself generously before returning to position. He pushed forward slowly, giving Jules time to adjust to the stretch, watching their face for any sign of discomfort. Jules’s mouth fell open on a silent gasp as he breached them, the sensation of fullness overwhelming in its intensity.
“Tell me what you want,” Keaton murmured, his voice rough with restraint as he braced himself above Jules, one hand tangled in their hair, the other tracing patterns down their side.
Jules’s answer was to guide his hand lower, their eyes never leaving his. “Everything,” they said, the word both plea and demand. “I want everything with you.”
Jules gasped as Keaton pushed deeper, their body yielding to the familiar pressure. Keaton moved with deliberate control, setting a rhythm that had Jules clutching his back, their breathcoming in short, desperate pants. The connection between them transcended the physical—each thrust, each shared breath reinforcing the bond they’d built over months of learning each other.
“Just like that,” Jules whispered, their voice breaking as Keaton shifted, hitting the spot that made their vision blur. “God, Keaton, you feel so good.”
Keaton’s pace increased, his restraint slipping as Jules moved beneath him, meeting each thrust with eager desperation. Sweat glistened on his brow as he watched Jules’s face, memorizing every expression of pleasure that crossed their features.
“You’re perfect,” he breathed, one hand sliding between their bodies to touch Jules where they needed him most. “So perfect for me.”
Jules’s back arched off the bed, their body tightening around Keaton as pleasure built within them. They were close—so close—the tension coiling tighter with each precise movement of Keaton’s hips, each skilled touch of his fingers.
“Let go,” Keaton urged, his voice strained with his own approaching release. “I’ve got you, Jules. Let go for me.”
The permission was all Jules needed. They cried out Keaton’s name as their release washed over them, their body trembling with the force of it. Keaton followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he found his own completion, Jules’s name a reverent whisper on his lips.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, limbs entangled in a sweaty, satisfied heap. Keaton pressed his forehead to Jules’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath.
“I love you,” Jules murmured, their fingers tracing lazy patterns on Keaton’s back. “Thank you for being here tonight.”
Keaton smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to their temple. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
As they lay together in the stillness of Jules’s new apartment, the worries that had plagued them earlier seemed distant and manageable. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but tonight, wrapped in Keaton’s arms, Jules knew they were home. It wasn’t about the four walls around them, but the man behind.
TWENTY-ONE
Keaton had always believed that work could fix most things, at least for a few hours at a time. But that particular lie wore thin on mornings like this. Last night had been the second night he’d slept alone. Jules had to close at Brew & Barrel, and they’d agreed it made the most sense if those were the nights Keaton stayed at his place and Jules went home to theirs.
If he didn’t love Jules so much, he wasn’t sure he’d have agreed so easily to them spending any time apart. It was strange to think it wasn’t that long ago when he swore he didn’t want anyone in his space, and now the apartment felt too big and empty with just him there.
Rain sluiced down the garage doors of Anderson Homeworks, turning the lot into a patchwork of puddles and pooling mud. Inside, the office was a crash of fluorescent light and horrible coffee. Keaton stood in front of the coffeemaker, pouring himself a mug so burned it tasted like regret. He wasn’t sure who’d decided to change brands, but once he found out, he’d make sure they didn’t make that mistake again.
He sipped anyway, jaw clenching. It was either that or admit he was getting sentimental about the mug sitting in the dish rack, the one Jules had always reached for when they were bored on their days off. It was white porcelain with a green rim and a faded fox near the handle. It looked absurdly out of place now. Like it was waiting for a hand that wasn’t coming back.
God, he was being dramatic. And that pissed him off almost as much as coming back from his run soaking wet and alone.
He set his own mug on the counter with a little more force than necessary. The crew noticed. He could tell by the sudden hush that swept through the room—Finn hunched over his laptop, Luke elbow-deep in tile samples, the new apprentice pretending something was fascinating about sorting drywall screws into bins. The old-timers shot each other looks, probably silently betting how long it would take for Keaton to snap.
He didn’t oblige them. He was a grown man more than capable of keeping his shit together. He stalked to his desk, dropping into his chair hard enough to make the wheels shriek. A stack of invoices waited—sloppy, numbers askew, at least two missing signatures. He started to circle errors with a red pen, the kind of mistake Finn never made. “Is there a reason these POs look like they were filled out by a raccoon with a head injury?” he called, not bothering to glance up.
Finn didn’t look over, just slid a battered paperback under a stack of papers as if Keaton wouldn’t notice. “Did you lose a bet, or did you just decide this morning that happiness is overrated?”
Keaton snapped the pen cap back on, harder than necessary. “These should have been filed a week ago. If we don’t keep up on shit like this, the office is going to turn into a pigsty. Am I the only one who notices?”
Finn arched a brow, like he was weighing whether it was worth the energy to call bullshit. “You can blame this attitude on invoices not being filed, but you might want to take a second to think about why they’re there. I can’t do fuck-all with them until you look over and approve everything so I can cut the check.” His focus drifted back to his paperwork. As if purposely trying to get under Keaton’s skin, he pulled out the paperback and opened it.
