“You should sleep here,” I insist. “You’ve got an early start and your car’s not going out tonight.”
He looks up. “I can call a cab in the morning.”
“I’m already up at five-thirty. It’s not a detour.”
We head inside around ten-thirty. Lance drops his jacket and kicks off his shoes. He grabs the blanket from the ottoman and climbs onto the couch.
“Don’t think the couch is comfortable.”
“I’ll sleep here like always,” he replies with a smile, already pulling the blanket over his lap. “Go to bed, G. You’ve got an early morning too.”
I don’t argue. I head to my room, leave the door mostly shut, and sit on the edge of the bed in the dark.
I should sleep. There’s no reason not to.
I lie back in my boxers and stare at the ceiling, listening as the apartment goes still. No TV. No movement. Nothing from the living room.
Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
I get up.
The hallway stays dark. I don’t turn on a light. When I reach the doorway to the living room, I stop.
Lance is already there.
Standing just on the other side, like he had the same idea.
We don’t say anything. We look at each other in the low spill of streetlight coming through the window. He’s still dressed, arms loose at his sides, expression hard to read.
“Sleep in the bed.” I say softly.
He nods once and follows me back down the hall.
I get in on my side while he silently strips down to his boxer shorts, then climbs in on the other. The bed is big enough to keep space between us, and he takes it. Stays on his side, like he’s making sure not to cross anything.
I move first.
I close the gap, slide my arm over him, pull him back against me. His body goes still for half a second, then melts into mine. I tighten my hold around his waist.
He fits. He must always have.
His hair brushes my chin. Same clean citrus scent he’s used for years. His breathing starts to slow, not asleep yet, but getting there.
“G…are you hard?”
I freeze. Haven’t even noticed it until he called it out. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Just ignore it.”
I start to ease away, but his hand comes back and grips my thigh, firm.
“Don’t move,” he sighs. “I don’t mind.”
I fucking do. I mind the hell out of it. He needs sleep and I’m here wound tight. But, because he says so, I don’t pull away. I hold him closer instead.
What the fuck am I doing? The question hammers through my head, but no answer arrives.
His breathing finally evens out, and he begins to drift away.
“G?”
