Dell’s mouth, to Mae’s immense relief, only slid deeper into his smile. His eyes closed completely.
“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m not.”
Mae held her breath. Waited for him to say more.
“Sometimes I wish I had nice tits,” he said suddenly. “God, your tits are incredible.”
Mae honked out a possibly inappropriate laugh, immediately smothering it with a hand. But Dell only kept grinning, his eyes remaining closed.
She reined herself in. And slowly, carefully, she moved herself on top, straddling him again. God, she loved being on top of Dell.
She moved her hands toward his breasts. Caressed their sides, molded them in her palms until they lifted, curved and soft next to each other.
“Funny,” she said. “I’ve always thought you already did.”
Dell had opened his eyes, just the tiniest bit, to look up at her. After a moment, he lifted a hand, threaded his fingers into her hair, pulled until she acquiesced, dropping her head down for a kiss. And even as every muscle in her body ached, something deep in her belly still stirred as Dell stretched the kiss, as his tongue swirled with hers, both lazy and with intent, soft, soft, soft.
Until her limbs truly did threaten to give out, and she worried she might suffocate him, and she collapsed back to his side, molded herself there, forehead against his neck, arm across his stomach.
“Would you want…to explore different pronouns or anything, ever?”
Dell waved a tired hand. “Nah. I don’t…I don’t want to deal with all that.”
“That’s okay.” Mae kissed his collarbone, unsurprised.
But a minute later, Dell spoke again.
“Maybe…” The words came as slowly as Mae’s just had. “Maybe if you’re ever around the house, talking to the dogs about me…”
Mae smiled against his skin.
“Yeah?” she whispered.
“Yeah. Maybe you could usetheythen.”
Mae pulled back to see his face once more.
“So you’retheyto the dogs.”
Dell smiled back, more relaxed than Mae had ever seen him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I like that.”
And then he added, “And you.”
“Yeah,” Mae whispered. “The dogs and me.”
* * *
By the following Tuesday, Mae was spending every night in Dell’s bed.
She hadn’t fully meant for that to happen, either. But somehow, she had learned where the dogs’ food was, how much they each took, which bowl belonged to Crosby, and Stills, and Nash, and Young. She learned how Dell took his coffee. Had memorized the shapes of his scars. Some mornings, before they headed into the shop, before either of them said a word, she curled herself inside a blanket on his leather armchair, drinking a mug of tea, looking through the sliding glass door at the mist through the trees, and listened to Dell play her favorite songs on his guitar.
* * *
On Wednesday, Dell installed the last bookshelf.
twenty-five
