“I changed our sleeping arrangements.” Magnus doesn’t look at all ashamed by this admission.
“How?” I’m not saying the dorm bed is amazing, but it ismybed and I’m used to sleeping in it.
“I moved my bed into your room and bought a mattress topper to fit over them.”
I shake my head at my b—husband, pulling him in as close as I can. “I’m here, Magnus. I’m safe, and I’m alive,” I remind him.
Magnus very carefully joins me in the bed, resting his head on my chest. “I should probably see the therapist, too. I’m making irrational decisions, aren’t I?”
I laugh softly, kissing the top of his head. “Yeah, baby, but moving our beds together isn't the most irrational thing you’ve done in the last week.”
His throat clicks as he audibly swallows. “Do you want me to undo any of it?.”
I let my eyes drift closed again, sleepy again with his warm weight on me. “No. I’m good. I like you close. Love you.”
“Love you,” he murmurs back, and I let myself relax back into sleep.
Chapter 43
Magnus
I’m a stalker.That’s the only explanation for why I’m obsessively checking Trent’s location on my phone. He’s supposed to be in therapy right now, and according to his location, he is. I’m supposed to be grading right now, and according to my location, I’m sitting outside his therapist’s office leaning against his car. It’s not healthy, but my therapist assures me that the desire to know where he is at all times will fade as long as I give my brain the opportunity to sit in my anxiety about it instead of running to fix the anxiety all the time. In other words, she wants me to stop obsessively checking his location, let myself feel worried, and go back to the normal routine we had before he was abducted. My brain needs to see him come home over and over to stop making me anxious when I can’t see him.
I’ll do that when school is done for the semester and we’re in each other’s pockets for a few months. Three weeks to go.
Instead of continuing to spiral about why I got a ride over to wait for him at his car, I pull out homework and start grading. These papers are more interesting than previous classes’ papers on the same topic, but in prior semesters no one I’d known had been abducted and it hadn’t made national news.New experiences equal new perspectives. My class is using my experience as a filter through which to write.
I love their passion, but it’s a little frustrating to read the same thing written by thirty different people.
“What are you doing here?”
Trent’s voice startles me out of the grading zone, and I drop my pen, standing up straight and turning to face him. He looks like he’s been crying, but there’s a deeply affectionate smile on his face. He’s happy to see me.
“It’s hard for me to be separated from you by the two miles between campus and this office, so I got a ride over here and I was grading papers while I waited.”
Trent chuckles softly, pulling me in for a warm, welcoming hug. “Stalker,” he accuses lightly, holding me like he never wants to let me go.
I turn my face into his neck, kissing him there and breathing in his spicy scent. “I’m going to work on it,” I promise.
He says nothing for at least two minutes, merely hugging me and breathing. Eventually, he pulls back, releasing me with one hand and slipping the other into mine. He’s mostly healed from his injuries. The doctors told him that it would be about six months before he could resume normal activity, and until then he needed to stay away from strenuous activity.
“I hired a moving company to move our dorm to our house.” It’s both information he needs and a reminder that I’m doing everything I can to ensure his recovery speeds along as well as possible. He’s been out of the hospital for three weeks, and he’s doing better, but I’ve seen him wince while he’s sitting doing homework.
“Thanks. Do you want to get an early dinner? I’m in the mood for country gravy.” He pauses and I open my mouth to agree, but he cuts me off with, “Then we should do a live stream for our subscribers.”
I close my mouth with a pop. I’ve been maintaining our site uploads on my own, and he’s participated by commenting on my videos and replying to user comments. It’s helped maintain our subscriber base through the last few weeks of his recovery. One of the things he’s been hesitant about is getting on camera again, for obvious reasons, and I told him if he never wanted to be on screen again, I would take over the site completely. It’s my project, after all, and he’s the one who bore the consequences of it.
“You don’t have to—” I start, but he cuts me off again.
“I’m going to. I talked to Emily about it, and we came up with a plan. I might not be able to get hard, but I can make you come, and that would be good for both of us.”
We haven’t done anything remotely sexual since he was discharged. Slept together, cuddled, hugged, been in each other’s pockets as much as possible, but no kissing and nothing that could be construed as a sexual advance.
“I—” I stop, take a deep breath, and reorganize my scattered thoughts. “I want you to touch me. I love it when you do, but I don’t want it if it’s performative or something you’re forcing yourself to do. I want sex, but only if you do, too, and it’s not going to aggravate your recovery.”
“It’s been a month. I think I’m ok to give you a handy,” he laughs.
I grip his hand tight and step in as close as I can get, looking up at him. “If you’re ok for a handy, I want kissing. I miss kissing you. I don’t know why we stopped kissing, but I don’t want a handy if?—”
