I gestured toward the kitchen. “Sandwiches just got here. Want something to drink?”
“Water’s good.”
We settled at my kitchen bar with the food spread between us. I was suddenly ravenous with a hunger that came from a good skate and workout. I demolished my first sandwich in what felt like four bites.
Wesley watched, a smile tugging at his lips. “Should you have ordered three?”
“Probably.” I reached for the second sub, slightly embarrassed by my appetite but too hungry to care.
Wesley unwrapped his sandwich, then paused and looked at it more carefully. “Wait. How did you know this is my order?”
“It’s what you ordered the last time. I hope it’s okay that I got it for you again.”
Wesley’s expression shifted—surprise, then something softer, warmer. “You remembered my sandwich order.”
“I notice what you like.” The admission came out more honest than I’d intended, revealing the way I’d been cataloging details about Wesley since we’d met. His coffee order, his daily routine, the way he’d decorated his apartment with more enthusiasm than organization.
“Griffin…” Wesley set down his sandwich, his brown eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. “That’s—thank you. For paying attention. For caring about the small things.”
“Of course I care.” The words felt inadequate for what I was trying to express—that Wesley had become the most important person in my life in a matter of weeks, that his preferences and habits and stories mattered to me in ways that went far beyond professional collaboration or physical attraction.
Wesley reached between us and his hand found mine. The touch was solid and warm. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice soft. “For being thoughtful. It’s…” He paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. “It means more than you probably realize.” He squeezed my hand gently before withdrawing.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, a quiet that felt easy rather than awkward. I finished my second sandwich while Wesley worked through his, and I just watched him—the way he seemed to relish every bite, the small smile that played at his lips when he caught me staring, the casual comfort he seemed to feel in my space.
“So what movie are we watching?” Wesley crumpled his sandwich wrapper. “Please tell me you have something better than just hockey documentaries.”
“I have a very respectable streaming queue.” I stood and moved to the living room, grabbing the remote. “Some fantasy stuff, action movies, a few classics.”
Wesley joined me on the couch, and I pulled up my saved list. He leaned closer to see the screen and scanned the titles with obvious interest. “Wait. You haveThe Name of the Windadaptation saved? I didn’t even know they made a movie.”
“Limited theatrical release, then straight to streaming.Most people missed it.” I’d loved Patrick Rothfuss’s books—had read the series twice, finding something comforting in Kvothe’s journey and the magic system Rothfuss had created. “It’s pretty good. Stays faithful to the source material.”
“I love those books.” Wesley’s voice held genuine enthusiasm. “Kvothe’s story is incredible. The way Rothfuss writes about music and magic and memory…”
“Want to watch it?”
“Absolutely.”
We settled into the couch cushions—the same couch where we’d first kissed, where I’d confessed my attraction and asked Wesley to risk everything for a relationship we had to hide. The sectional was large enough that we could have maintained distance, but Wesley nestled close, his thigh pressing against mine, our shoulders touching.
I started the movie and tried to focus on the screen—on Kvothe’s red hair and clever hands, on the beautiful cinematography and the haunting score. But I was acutely aware of Wesley beside me, of the warmth of his body and the occasional shift of his weight that brought us closer together.
Halfway through the first act, Wesley’s hand clasped mine. His fingers laced through my own with gentle certainty, and I squeezed back, acknowledging the contact and the intimacy it represented.
By the time Kvothe entered the university, Wesley had leaned his head against my shoulder, and my arm had found its way around his back. The movie continued—Ambrose’s antagonism, Master Elodin’s strange wisdom, Denna’s mysterious appearances—but I was only half watching.
I turned my head slightly, and Wesley looked up at the same moment. Our faces were inches apart, the space between us charged with possibility and desire.
“Griffin,” Wesley said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I kissed him.
The movie faded to background noise—dialogue and music and the visual story of magic and revenge becoming irrelevant compared to the reality of Wesley’s mouth on mine. He shifted to face me more fully, his hands finding my shoulders, then sliding up to cup my jaw.
I pulled him closer, one hand spanning his lower back, the other threading through his hair. The kiss deepened, becoming less gentle and more urgent, and Wesley made a small sound of approval that sent heat through my entire body.
We shifted on the couch and lay facing each other. My hands explored the warm skin beneath his shirt, and his fingers worked at the button of my jeans. The movie played on, forgotten, while we discovered each other with increasing intensity. Our fingers roamed against bare skin, we ground our hard cocks together and?—
