I reached out, my fingers trembling as I traced the line of his jaw, down to the pulse beating in his neck.
“I love you,” I whispered into the darkness, the confession heavy on my tongue. “All I’ve ever wanted is this. Right here.”
I closed my eyes, and the image flooded my mind again, the porch, the house, the laughter. The quiet mornings with coffee I had imagined earlier.
“I want a life with you, Cal,” I whispered to his sleeping form, my voice cracking. “But I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to be a boyfriend or maybe…a husband one day. My dad, he didn’t teach me how to build a home. He only taught me how to survive the storm.”
I leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes.
“But I want to find a way. Because when I think of a future now… all I see is that porch you wanted. I see the quiet mornings. I see us. And for you, I’m going to figure it out.”
16
NOVEMBER - PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA / CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA
Now playing: Strangers - Ethel Cain
Iwokeuptangledin sheets, sunlight beaming through the window, illuminating the snow covered outside in a painfully white glow.
Everythingsmelled like him.
It was early, I knew that much because my alarm went off on my phone. It was six in the morning. We had an eight o’clock flight to Charlotte forFront Lines. Our first main event match ever. It still didn’t feel real. God, it didn’t. None of this did.
How did I get here? Laying here, in Callum’s bed, in his apartment, realizing my worst fear: this thing we were doing wasn’t just nothing. Itneverwas. And now, there was no escaping it.
But we couldn’t have this. I knew we couldn’t. Surely Cal did too.
The thing about this world, this industry… difference would never be accepted. Gay wrestlers? That wasn’t even in the question. Especially gay rivals. That wasn’t even on the list of okays in the world of scripted outcomes and kayfabe.
Mythoughts jolted at the realization I was in the bed alone. And surprisingly, I smelled food cooking.
Cal could cook?
I sat up, searching for my pants, and tugged them on lazily before making my way down the hall with an anxiety I don’t think I’d ever felt in my life.
Right in the kitchen, there he was. A gray hoodie on, jeans, and surrounded by food. Bacon, eggs, potatoes, orange juice. He was pulling a couple of pancakes off a pan on the stove.
I walked up. I couldn’t help but smile. He’d woken up even earlier to do this?
“You cook?” I asked softly.
He nodded. “When I’m actually able to, yeah. I love it.” He slid a pancake onto a plate. “I’m almost done.”
He leaned over and kissed me sweetly, like we’d been living this routine for years.
I walked around and sat in one of the bar stools at the island behind Cal. He turned around with a stack of four pancakes.
“Oh, I didn’t forget,” he said, going over to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of black cold brew coffee.
“Even got the coffee,” I teased as he poured a huge cup of it.
“Of course I did,” he said, bringing it to me. “I get it for you practically every morning on the road. Figured I’d do it here.”
“When did you have time to get coffee for me?” I asked, taking a sip.
“Before I came and got you yesterday. I went and grabbed some stuff for breakfast. I told you, I wasn’t letting you stay at a hotel on Thanksgiving, babe.” He poured orange juice for himself.
Babe.
