He’d taped a Condors schedule to a cabinet door next to a photo of us from the winter coats event in Buffalo. We were wearing big grins, and I had my arm around his shoulders. The photographer caught us mid-laugh, completely unguarded.
My heart skipped a beat. This was the life he lived when I wasn’t around, and he’d included me. I was part of what he saw every day.
While Nix microwaved the lo mein, I took pizza from the fridge and divided the slices onto our plates. He leaned against the counter, his expression hard to read. It wasn’t worried, exactly. More like cautious.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
But he didn’t look away.
When the microwave beeped, he took out the noodles and set them on the counter between us. We ate standing side by side, our hips bumping every time one of us moved. He stole a piece of pepperoni from my plate, and I kissed his cheek in return.
“Cold pizza is objectively superior to warm,” I said around a mouthful. “Not even a debate.”
He scrunched his nose. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
“Are too.” He smiled. “But I still like you more than anyone.”
I put down my plate and kissed him. Quickly taking control, he pushed me against the fridge and pinned my hands beside my head. The kiss was fierce and possessive. I surrendered with my body but met his tongue with mine, trying to show him I needed this as much as he did.
Please trust me, Nix. I need a little time.
When we broke apart, his cheeks were flushed. “Finish eating?”
“Should we?”
“Probably.”
But he was already reaching for me again, and between kisses, we fed each other dinner. Afterward, we washed the dishes together, elbows bumping, his shoulder pressing against mine every few seconds like he couldn’t stand not touching.
We ended up back on the couch. I stretched my arm along the back, and he tucked himself into my side, head on my shoulder, resting one hand on my chest. On TV, a game recap played with the volume muted. Neither of us watched.
“I’ll miss this,” he said. “During the playoffs.”
I pressed a kiss into his hair and breathed in the smell of his shampoo. It was something clean and woodsy that I’d started associating with happiness. “Me too.”
He turned his face up and studied me. There was still some anxiety there, but he definitely looked calmer.
While we watched each other, the fire we’d lit in the kitchen spread through me. The talking part of the night was over.
He must have sensed it too, because he turned toward me. I put my cheek against his, thrilled by the pull of our scruff. When I brushed my thumb across the hollow of his throat, his pulse jumped.
“Pack,” he said.
I kissed him, and he opened for me immediately. Cradling the back of my neck, he deepened the kiss.
After a moment, he pulled back and dropped his gaze to his hands. “I need you, babe, but I don’t think I can deal with fucking. My head is too loud.” He looked up, and his eyes found mine. “But I want to be close to you.”
I felt the same way. The uncertainty made our need for connection stronger.
“Let’s keep it simple,” I said. “Just us, jerking off together.”
“Yeah. That’s a great idea.”
We stood, and the rustle of clothes coming off was the only sound in the room. Then, naked, we spread throws over the sofa and sat with our shoulders touching and thighs pressed together.
