“But what are we? Boyfriends? Together? What do we tell ourselves, even if we can’t tell anyone else?”
Understanding dawned in his expression. “You want to define this?”
“I need to.” It came out more desperate than I’d intended. “I need to know what this is. What you are to me. What I am to you.”
He reached out and pulled me closer, until I was tucked against his side. “You’re my boyfriend. If you want to be. If that word works for you.”
Boyfriend. The word sent a thrill through me—part terror, part joy.
“I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” I said.
“Me neither.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “We’re both figuring this out. But yeah. I want you to be my boyfriend. I want this to be real, even if we can’t tell anyone yet. Official, at least to ourselves.”
“Okay.” The word felt monumental. “Boyfriends. We’re boyfriends.”
“We are.” He sounded pleased. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” And despite all my fears, all my anxieties, I realized it was true. This house, the only place I could feel free and safe, was back to the way it had been, just with another person in it. “Yeah, it’s okay. It’s good.”
“Good.” He kissed me again, longer this time. “So, boyfriend, any other questions you want to clear up?”
I took a breath. “Your apartment. The landlord said at least another month, maybe six weeks.”
“Right.”
I wanted to trust that one month would be enough. That we could figure out how to be together while hiding, how to navigate the complications, how to protect what we had.
But experience had taught me that things rarely worked out the way you hoped they would.
Still. I had him now. Had this. Had one month—maybe more—of being together without the outside world intruding.
And maybe that would be enough time to build something strong enough to survive whatever came after.
“Okay,” I said. “One month. We’ll make the most of it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Étienne
I stood in front of the mirror in Marco’s guest room—my room, technically, though I hadn’t slept there in days—adjusting my sweater.
But today felt different. I was getting ready for a game, knowing I’d come home to my boyfriend.
The word still sent a thrill through me.
I headed downstairs and found him on the couch, his booted foot propped up, tablet in hand. “What’re you reading?” I asked with a smirk. “Getting some tips for later?”
He looked up and his expression shifted. Was that a blush?
“You look good,” he said.
“Thanks.” I did a small turn. “Standard game day uniform.”
He set the tablet aside and held out his hand. I crossed to him and he caught my hand, pulled me closer, then reached up to straighten my sweater at my shoulder.
His hands lingered, smoothing the fabric even though it didn’t need it.
“I wish I was playing,” he said quietly.
