It takes another five minutes before the farmhouse appears in the dark. It looks like it belongs on a postcard—two stories, white siding, and a big wraparound porch. I’m too tired to take it all in. The last part of the drive completely flattened me—partly the late hour, partly the weight of our conversation lingering.
We unload the duffels in silence, carefully clicking the car doors shut. Linden lets us in through the side entrance, past a massive kitchen. The scent of grilled chicken and veggies still lingers in the air, making my mouth water on the way up. The stairs creak despite our best efforts to move quietly.
Linden’s room is larger than I expected but sparsely decorated, dominated by a big bed at its center. The quilt covering it looks handmade. A few framed pictures hang on the walls—his family again, visibly younger than in the photo I saw at the Nook; Linden at his high school graduation; a close-up of a cow I assume is Buttercup.
“Okay,” Linden murmurs, dropping his duffel in the middle of the room. “The air mattress should be…give me a sec.”
I sit down on the edge of his bed while he opens the closet doors, shifts around in there, then moves to peer under the bed.
“Shit,” he whispers, scratching the back of his head.
“What?” I murmur.
“Mom must’ve moved it. We use it for guests, so she might’ve forgotten to put it back into my room after the last visit.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “I have no idea where she put it—it could be in the attic, the basement, my parents’ bedroom…”
“Hey, it’s fine,” I say, shrugging. “I can take the floor.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Linden protests. “You take the bed, and I’ll grab some blankets.”
“Lind.”
“No, Micah, you’re ourguest. My mom will kill me if I let you sleep on the floor.”
I snort, shaking my head. “You drove all the way here. And I’m also not letting you sleep on the floor of your own room either.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks, then I carefully clear my throat.
“I mean, we could…”
“Yeah?”
I gesture at the bed I’m sitting on. “It’s not a small bed. We’d both fit.”
Linden presses his lips together. He looks at the bed, then at me.
“You don’t mind?” he asks quietly, and I snort.
“Lind, you had my dick in your mouth. I rubbed you off in the back of your truck—no, I don’t mind,” I promise, a tired grin playing around the corners of my lips.
He groans but nods. “Get in then. I’m about to keel over.”
I’m dead tired when we nestle into bed, but sleep evades me.
The glaring red digits on Linden’s alarm clock jump from 12:00 to 12:01 a.m. He’s set it for five in the morning, which means I’ll start my first day on the farm tired and bleary-eyed.
Great.
Shuffling under the light covers, I slowly sit up, then rub a hand over my face. Next to me, Linden sighs softly in his sleep. He was out like a light from the moment his head touched the pillow. I’m not sure what keeps me awake—it’s warm in here, yes, but nothing compared to my cramped attic room in the Nook. I’m also not fussy about sharing close spaces with others. As a college football player, I’m constantly on the road during the season, sleeping on a bus full of teammates and in small hotel rooms. But somehow, Linden’s presence makes me oddly self-aware of my big body. Suddenly, I feel like I’m taking up way too much space.
Am I crowding him?
I’m a touchy guy—what if I cuddle up to him in his sleep and he hates it?
What if I drool on his pillow?
Absurd thoughts, considering what we already did with each other, but they keep swirling around in my mind, mixing with the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the farmhouse.
Letting out a low huff, I decide a bit of fresh air might help. I quietly slide out of bed, then tiptoe across the hardwood floor, my path illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the big window.
