Landed. On my way home. Thirty minutes.
Marco
Hurry
Étienne had sent that text seventeen minutes ago. Which meant he’d be here in thirteen more minutes. Assuming traffic was normal and he didn’t stop anywhere.
I forced myself to sit on the couch, then immediately stood up again.
The house was too quiet. Had been too quiet all week. How quickly my definition of quiet had changed!
I’d tried to stay busy. Working out. Reorganizing the kitchen cabinets. Reading. Anything to avoid sitting alone withmy thoughts.
Because alone with my thoughts meant thinking about that text conversation we’d had on Friday night.
I want to tell Kinnunen.
I’d nearly dropped my phone when I’d read it. My heart had raced, my hands had shaken, and all the worst-case scenarios flooded my mind at once.
I’d wanted to text back immediately:No. Absolutely not. Too dangerous.
But I’d forced myself to slow down. To think it through.
Étienne needed this. He was a more social creature and thrived off being seen. He needed support, needed to not carry this secret alone.
And he’d been clear: he wanted to tell Kinnunen he was bisexual, not that we were together.
He was trying to protect me and I’d still said no. Or close enough to no.
I could tell how much it was torturing him, though. In the end, I’d compromised.That’s what they did in romance novels.
Not permission, exactly. Not prohibition either. Just fear wrapped up in trust.
And now I’d spent the last four days wondering if I’d failed him. If my fear was holding him back from what he needed. If eventually he’d resent me for it.
A car door slammed outside.
I was at the front door before I’d made a conscious decision to move, yanking it open just as Étienne reached for the handle.
He froze, duffel bag in hand, eyes finding mine.
For a second, we just looked at each other. Seven days of separation, of missing him, of texts that couldn’t possibly convey everything I felt—all of it hanging in the air between us.
Then he crossed the threshold, dropped the bag, and Iwas pulling him inside, kicking the door closed, pressing him against it as our mouths found each other.
The kiss was desperate. Hungry. Seven days of wanting condensed into one moment of finally having.
His hands were in my hair, on my face, sliding down my back like he was trying to confirm I was real. I gripped his shoulders, his waist, needing to touch him everywhere at once.
“Missed you,” he gasped against my mouth.
“Seven days is too long.”
“Don’t want to do that again.” He kissed me harder.
We made it as far as the couch before the urgency overtook us. Clothes came off in a tangle of hands and lust. I pulled him down on top of me, and the weight of him, the solid reality of him, made my chest finally ease.
“Marco—” His hands were everywhere, touching, claiming, relearning. “Need you. Missed you so much.”
