If Morgan smelled amazing, the way he tasted was a balm to Jack’s soul. And the feel of him beneath Jack’s hands, solid and real and welcoming, had been a comforting place to land in a life of wild storms.
Being in a small town where everybody knew everyone else was like being back home—only better. His dad wasn’t beating him. There weren’t all the old-fashioned rules that made him feel like he’d been put in a box and left there. And Morgan was here, at the center of it all.
Jack wanted to keep what he had here. Build on it. Layer by layer, ribbons of connection all the way to the end of time. Like atrain track that never ended but went on and on to all the warm, sunny places where nothing hurt and love lasted forever.
“I need to say something.” Morgan’s gruff tone jerked Jack back to the kitchen, away from his imaginings. Standing in the doorway to the hallway, Morgan paused without turning to face Jack. “That was probably a mistake.” He lifted his hand in a wave-away gesture. “It shouldn’t happen again.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Sure.” Jack tried his best to keep his voice from shaking. “Sure, okay.”
He’d been stupid. Same as when he’d believed Blue and Star were his true friends. He’d imagined that something good had been growing between him and Morgan, a solid connection that made Jack feel like he was flying even though he was staying in one place.
“Okay,” he repeated to the empty air.
Outside, the world was howling whiteness, and in the yellow-and-white kitchen, everything felt stale and sticky and used up.
He couldn’t go anywhere while the blizzard lasted. Could he? Surely Morgan wouldn’t throw him out into the snow.
Well, that’s what came from depending on someone else, didn’t it. Fine.Fine, then. Jack was going to muddle through however much time Morgan gave him before kicking him out. Then he’d collect his thousand bucks, maybe keep those boots, and be on his way.
For now, he peeled the potatoes, cursed the lack of a microwave, and put them in water to boil like the dutiful servant he was. While the potatoes cooked, he dragged the bags of clothes into the parlor and threw them into the corner. No fashion show tonight. He didn’t want those things, anyway. He’d never asked for them.
He kicked one of the bags, fuming, and the box with the new boots fell out onto the futon. With a huff, he picked up the box, and then he sighed and sat on the couch. Opened the box.
The boots were sleek, oiled brown leather that was silky to the touch. The laces were new and thick, and Jack ran his fingers across the toe. There was steel inside there. These boots would last a lifetime. Unlike anything else he’d ever touched.
Slowly, with reluctance that felt like a tide pulling him out to sea, Jack put the boots down and went back into the kitchen.
The potatoes were fine. The stew was congealing in the pot. Where was Morgan?
Jack heard nothing from the bedroom or the bathroom, and alarm raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
He found Morgan sitting on the bed, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders, a towel wrapped around his middle. He was leaning forward as if he was trying to get up but couldn’t manage it. The scars on either side of his left kneecap looked red and hard, like the surgery had gone deep.
“Morgan?” Jack asked, coming close. He had never imagined that getting off that train would end up with him playing nursemaid to a man like Morgan. Handsome. Unhappy. Wounded.
“I got dizzy,” Morgan said, his head still bowed. More water dripped from his hair and slid down the front of his chest, two racing beads of silver. “It was hot, the medicine kicked in, and wham.”
“I’ll help you,” Jack said. “Let me get you dried off and dressed.”
“No.” Morgan flushed and turned away as though Jack was the very last thing he wanted to look at. “I’ve really had enough of being vulnerable.”
“Fuck that,” Jack said, feeling practical and useful. “I’ve had your cock in my mouth. What difference does it make if I see you naked?”
That drew a sharp laugh from Morgan. “I’m sick of needing to be coddled.”
“It’s fine,” Jack said. “Just don’t be an asshole about it.”
Morgan went still, and he looked up at Jack as if preparing for a blow. “Am I an asshole?” he asked. “Iam, aren’t I.”
His demeanor was strange, so Jack ignored it. He grabbed a dry towel from the bathroom and came back. Why not add nursemaid to his duties. He began drying Morgan’s hair. His shoulders. Arms. Torso. Morgan stayed obediently still.
Then Jack hunkered down and dried Morgan’s legs and feet. When he was finished, he held out his hand.
“What?” Morgan asked.
“Where’s your brace?”
