They dropped Eli off without incident, and he swayed his way up the walkway to his building with Bennett calling out to him to drink a glass of water before he went to bed. Eli waved his shoe over his shoulder and disappeared inside.
Sandro rolled his lips inward and let them out with a pop. “I could use some water.”
“No shit,” Bennett said with a laugh, pulling into Sandro’s driveway. His car was still parked at the curb, the sandwiches he’d purchased hours ago no doubt soggy and gross, and the lights Sandro had installed earlier were lit up against the darkness.
He escorted Sandro up to his front door, and as he tried the keys on Sandro’s keyring to find the right one, Sandro whispered, “B. Psst, B,” as if Bennett wasn’t right there. “Check this out.” He unzipped his jacket, revealing the head of a pink one-eyed bear with a half-chewed ear.
Bennett’s jaw dropped. “Did you . . . Did you steal Mr. Wiggles from CC?”
As if on cue, Sandro’s phone rang in his pocket.
Sandro snickered. “How much do you want to bet that’s CC?”
Chuckling, Bennett pushed Sandro’s front door open. “He’s going to murder you. And you won’t even see it coming.”
Sandro laughed again and tripped his way into the house. “Shh,” he said, as if he wasn’t the one causing the racket.
“God, I forgot what a sloppy, giggly drunk you are.”
“Did you miss me sloppy and giggly and drunk?” Sandro asked, setting Mr. Wiggles on a side table. His phone stopped ringing and he muted the ringer.
“Not particularly. I prefer you sober.”
Sandro leaned into him. “Did you miss me sober?” As if his strings had been cut, he fell into Bennett and tucked his face into his neck. “I missed you,” he whispered on an exhaled breath that tickled Bennett’s skin. “You smell good. How come you don’t smell like pizza? Why did you go away? Can I have some water now?”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Bennett stuck his nose in Sandro’s hair. Sandro did smell like pizza, but also like whatever shampoo he’d used this morning. He was pliant and warm and so very real in Bennett’s arms. The need to hug Sandro close nearly overwhelmed him, yet he somehow managed to push Sandro away by the shoulders. “Water,” he croaked. “Be right back.”
Leaving Sandro in the entranceway, he walked the few feet into the kitchen, slapped on the light, and banged cupboards open and closed until he found the glasses. He filled one with water from the tap, sucking in a breath that didn’t smell like Sandro while he did so, turned?—
And there was Sandro, leaning against the island, his eyes a tad clearer than they’d been a moment ago. “Are you going to go away again?”
God. Bennett had the odd sensation of his chest being carved out, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. “I live in California.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Swallowing hard enough that his throat clicked, Bennett stepped closer and set the glass on the counter. He waited until Sandro grabbed it, his hand above Bennett’s, their fingers brushing, before saying, “No, Ro. I’m not going away again. Not unless you ask me to.”
Inhaling sharply, Sandro’s nostrils flared. He nodded once, though whether or not he believed Bennett was anyone’s guess. The glass felt like a bridge between them, a truce of sorts, middle ground where the way forward wasn’t muddled by their pasts.
Sandro’s gaze dropped to Bennett’s mouth. He licked his lips. Bennett still couldn’t get enough oxygen, and he swallowed to wet his dry throat. “I’m going to go,” he said, the words scraping his throat raw. He nodded at the glass of water. “Make sure you drink that.”
Sandro’s free hand clamped onto his wrist. “Stay.”
Closing his eyes, Bennett clenched his teeth. His fingers jerked around the water glass before he very deliberately peeled them off. He shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t take Sandro up on his invitation, but he couldn’t make himself step back. Instead, he closed the distance between them, gratified by Sandro’s sharp inhale, and nudged Sandro’s nose with his own. “The next time you ask me that,” he breathed against warm skin, “you better be sober.”
And he left before he did something he’d regret.
chapter eight
“I hate mornings,” Sandro grumbled, stomping down the stairs of his townhouse. The knock on his front door came again, and he swung the door open to scowl at Eli. “I hate sun,” he grumbled to his teammate. “I hate you.”
Eli didn’t appear bothered by that in the least. Dressed in running pants and a matching running jacket, he grinned. “Let’s go jogging.”
“Fuck no.”
“You said you’d come with me.”
“That was before I drank my weight in tequila.” Sandro smacked his lips together. He’d brushed his teeth—four times—yet his mouth still felt like it was stuffed with tequila-flavored cotton balls.
