“Fucking bullshit,” Chris says, voice sharp with anger.
“That’s...” Wyatt’s arm tightens around me. “I’m sorry. That should never have happened.”
“Well, it won’t happen today.” I turn my head to look at them both. “Dr. Cruz didn’t even blink when I said I was certain. Just scheduled it. No interrogation about hypothetical husbands or future regrets.”
“Good,” Chris says. “Because we’re your actual boyfriends, and we fully support you cutting out your fallopian tubes.”
The casual way he says ‘boyfriends’ makes something warm unfurl in my stomach. “Is that what you are?”
“Among other things,” Wyatt says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “Partners. Lovers. The men who are going to take care of you for the next two weeks.”
“Just two weeks?” I tease.
“To start,” Chris says. “We’ll renegotiate after you’re cleared for all activities.”
“Speaking of my recovery,” I begin, then pause, uncertain how they’ll take what I have to say.
“What about it?” Wyatt asks.
“I don’t want you two to think you have to wait for me. I mean, you aren’t just my boyfriends, right? You’re each other’s. I want you to—take care of each other too.”
Chris’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. He reaches over and silences it without looking.
The silence stretches as the hold each other’s gazes. Chris’s phone buzzes again, ignored.
Suddenly I realize I incited a standoff I wasn’t prepared to have to referee.
“Guys, forget it…”
Wyatt raises a hand to stall me. “No, I’m glad you brought it up.” He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing absent circles on my hip. Then he looks at Chris. “I already know what I want. I want this—all of it. You. Her. Us. I’m not confused about that part.” He pauses to take a breath. “I just didn’t want to say it first and make you feel like you had to match me.”
Chris stares at him. Something cracks behind his eyes—not pain, exactly, but the strain of holding something too tightly for too long.
“Fuck, Wyatt.” He looks away, swipes a hand over his face. When he speaks again, it comes out halting, uncertain. “It’s just harder for me—to let myself be—what I am. To be…” He inhales, holds it, then in a pained voice says, “Bisexual. Admitting I want this. All of this. It’s…” He looks straight at Wyatt. In a smaller voice that’s almost a whisper, he says, “You know why it’s hard for me, man. It isn’t about you.”
Wyatt doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wall up. Just holds Chris’s gaze with the steady calm of a man who’s already decided to weather whatever comes. “Yeah, I know. In your own time. I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not really sure what passed between them, but whatever it was is just that: between them. Which only proves my point. As much as I’d like to counsel them as I might a couple struggling with the challenges of a relationship, I am far too close to this one and I have a feeling they need to figure this part out on their own. But there was no mistaking the looks in both their eyes when they were tangled together in pleasure moments ago. They look at me the same way.
The phone buzzes again, finally, blessedly breaking the tension.
“We should get ready,” I say, sitting up.
They don’t argue, but I feel their reluctance.
“I need to check this,” Chris says, finally reaching for his phone. His expression shifts as he reads, something tightening around his eyes. “I’ll join you in the shower in a second.”
Wyatt and I exchange a glance but don’t push. We head to the bathroom while Chris types a response. By the time Wyatt has the water running, Chris appears in the doorway, phone left behind.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine,” he says, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. “Just work stuff.”
We shower together—efficient this time, hands helpful rather than wandering. They wash my hair, Wyatt’s fingers working shampoo through while Chris rinses, both of them treating me like something precious. Such a small intimacy, but it feels monumental.
By the time we’re dressed and ready to leave, my anxiety has returned full force. My hands shake as I check for my insurance card, ID, the paperwork they told me to bring.
“Hey,” Chris says, taking my hands. “We’ve got you.”
