"Garage," I said. "Gotta finish the rebuild on that Triumph before the weekend. Customer's getting antsy."
He nodded, relief flickering across his face.
I lingered a second longer, just to watch the way his hand curled around the brush, the way his biceps flexed with every stroke. Then I turned, left the door open behind me, and started down the hall.
At the landing, I stopped and looked back. He was still painting, head down, body loose. In the early light, he looked almost happy.
It hit me then, sharp as a blade: I could give him everything he needed. Not just sex or safety, but a place to put all his wild, messy want. A place he could ruin, and remake, as many times as he wanted. That was what it meant to belong to someone. That was what I'd wanted, all along.
I left him to his painting, the sound of the brush scratching away at the canvas following me down the stairs like a promise.
I went to work, and the whole time, I thought of him up there—bare skin, paint-splattered, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he destroyed and rebuilt his own heart.
I could live with that. Hell, I could live for it.
It was dark by the time I shut the shop down. The garage still hummed with the day's work—a pair of V-twins up on lifts, the smell of brake fluid and burned rubber thick in the air—but all I could think about was the apartment above, the way Bo’s laughter sometimes drifted down through the pipes when he was in a good mood.
My hands were still stained with grease. I wiped them on a rag, but the black lines just sank deeper, like they were tattooed under the skin. I paused at the bottom of the stairs and made myself take three slow breaths, just to bleed off the edge before I went up.
At the top, the hall was dark except for a spill of light from the kitchen. Bo’s art supplies were stacked on the entry table—neat for once, every tube and tin lined up with an obsessiveness that almost made me proud.
I walked in slow, not bothering to announce myself. The smell of dinner hit first—garlic, onion, something sharp and sweet simmering in a cast iron pan.
The old wood table was set for two, plates stacked, silverware squared off with military precision. A linen napkin sat at each spot, folded into triangles. The whole setup looked like something out of a magazine, except for the chipped edge of the plate and the coffee ring that had bled through the table runner.
Bo was standing by the stove, watching the sauce reduce. He didn’t see me at first, too focused, but I caught the way his shoulders tensed up when I let the door click shut behind me.
He turned, slow, and smiled—a fast, nervous thing. His cheeks were pink from the heat, or maybe from nerves. The sleeves on his shirt were rolled to the elbows, forearms painted with a map of blue and red streaks, and he had a dish towel slung over one shoulder like a French housewife.
He looked at me, then at the table, then back at me, like he was waiting for a grade on a report card. I didn’t say anything. Just stood there, arms folded, and let my eyes drag over every detail.
Bo couldn’t hold the silence. He cleared his throat, then jerked his chin toward the stove. “Made pasta. It’s the one from that cookbook you left out.”
He pointed to the counter, where my battered copy of“The Essential Italian”lay open, spine cracked. There were post-it notes all down the edge of the page, little circles and arrows in his cramped handwriting. The recipe called for a sauce that took hours—marinara, with three different kinds of tomatoes and a pile of fresh basil.
I let the silence ride another beat. Bo shifted his weight, toe tapping the floor in a syncopated rhythm. His eyes went wide and hopeful, but there was a pinch of fear at the corners.
I walked over to the table, dragged a finger along the edge of the plate. “You measure the forks?”
He blinked, then grinned, showing the chip in his front tooth. “Shut up. Just wanted it to look nice.”
I nodded. It did. It looked fucking perfect.
He dished up two plates, hands shaking just enough to notice, and set one at my place. “You wanna eat first, or—?”
I stepped in close, until he had to look up. He was breathing faster now, the pulse in his neck gone wild. I reached out and ran my hand through his hair, slow, curling my fingers at the scalp. He shivered.
“On your knees,” I said.
He didn’t even hesitate. He knelt, fast and smooth, thighs spread wide on the cold tile. He put his hands behind his back, just the way I liked, the way I’d taught him, and waited.
I took a step closer, let my boots crowd the space between his legs. He looked up at me, mouth open, eyes huge. I couldsee the hunger there—the need, not just for the act, but for the command, the permission to be exactly what he was.
I unzipped, slow, and took myself out. His gaze flicked to my cock, then to my face. There was no fear in it now, only relief.
“Hands stay back,” I told him.
He nodded, then leaned in, lips parting. I slid my hand to the back of his head, fingers tightening in his hair, and guided him forward. He took me in, greedy, like he’d been waiting all day.
