Afterwards, we did the dishes together. He washed, I dried. It was stupidly domestic—the kind of mundane routine I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. Théo’s hands were submerged in soapy water, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, the scars on his forearms visible in the kitchen light.
He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow. “Staring is rude, Sullivan.”
“Can’t help it.” I set down the dish towel and stepped closer, crowding him against the counter. “You’re nice to look at.”
“Such a charmer.” But his voice had gone a little breathless.
I reached past him to turn off the faucet. Water dripped from his fingers onto the floor. Neither of us moved to clean it up.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said quietly. “I know it’s only a few days—”
“Don’t get sappy on me.” He turned in my arms, back against the counter now, facing me. His hands came up to rest on my chest, damp and warm through my shirt. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Promise?”
He looked at me for a long moment. Uncertainty flickered in those dark eyes and then his gaze dropped—the look of someone who had forgotten how to hope.
“Promise,” he said quietly.
I tilted his chin up with my fingers, making him meet my eyes.
Then I leaned down and kissed him.
This time it wasn’t slow. It was hungry, urgent, all the wanting I’d been holding back through small talk and dinner and dishes. He made a sound against my mouth and I swallowed it, pressing him harder against the counter, my hands sliding beneath that soft black sweater to find warm skin.
“Bedroom,” he gasped between kisses. “Unless you want to traumatize your dog.”
I glanced at Aspen, who was watching us from his bed, head tilted.
“Fair point.”
I grabbed Théo’s hand and pulled him down the hallway and he followed, laughing and the sound of it filled something hollow in my chest.
We barely made it through the door before his mouth was on mine again. I used my last functioning brain cell to kick the door shut.
He kissed like he skated—precise, intense, utterly focused. His fingers worked at the buttons of my henley while I walked him backward toward the bed, my hands still under his sweater, greedy for the warmth of his skin.
“Off,” he muttered against my lips, tugging at the fabric. “This needs to be off.”
I reached behind my head and grabbed it by the neckline, pulling it off over my head and throwing it. It hit the floor somewhere behind me. Then I pulled his sweater over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, the pale expanse of his chest,the scars I’d traced with my fingers and my mouth and would trace again tonight.
He was so fucking beautiful it made my chest ache.
“You can touch me,” he said. “I won’t break.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Then stop looking at me like I might.” His voice was softer than I expected. “Like I’m something precious.”
“You are though.”
He held my gaze for a moment—something flickering behind his eyes that he didn’t try to hide. Then he made a frustrated sound and pulled me down onto the bed, rolling us so he was on top, his thighs bracketing my hips. His hair fell into his eyes and I reached up to push it back, letting my hand linger on his cheek.
“You’re insufferable,” he breathed.
“So I’ve been told.”
He kissed me again—slower this time, deeper—and rocked his hips against mine. I was already hard, had been half-hard since he’d let me pin him against the kitchen counter, and the friction made me groan into his mouth.
