Page 29 of Ruined

I keep checking the clock all day—something I never usually do. It’s a busy day at work, but thoughts of Oliver keep resurfacing regardless, distracting me whenever I have a second to myself.

He looked so dejected yesterday at breakfast, hanging his head, like he thought I was done with him or something. I don’t know how to reassure him with more than words or actions. Touch is what grounds him, but touch is complicated between us. It’s up to me to keep our touches strictly non-sexual, and I’m not sure if I can trust myself with that responsibility anymore.

Monday night was too close. He can’t go anywhere near my dick again, and I sure as hell can’t put my thumb in his mouth. A damn hypocrite is what I am—insisting we stay platonic but failing to stick to my own conviction.

It’s so hard to keep him out of my head. So hard to keep our lines from blurring.

When I get off work, I text Oliver straight away. He’s waiting outside his apartment building when I arrive, and we go to a bigger grocery store away from the city center. We used to go here sometimes when he was younger. The exterior hasn’t changed much, but there’s a café by the entrance that wasn’t there back then.

I give Oliver my shopping list, and he roams around the shelves without hesitation, helping me find the items I need. By the beverage aisle, he stops, looking at a pack of sodas. I lift them into the cart, and he stares at me in shock.

“You don’t drink those.”

“Yeah, but you do.” I wave toward the breakfast aisle. “Go on, pick what you want.”

He comes back with a box of cereal I’ve never tried before, and I tell him to take two. He stares at me again, eyes wide in awe. It’s just some cereal, but to him, it means everything. It means I want him around, not just for dinner but for breakfast, too. It means I won’t push him away.

“What are we making for dinner?” he asks, smiling as he trots through the aisles. God, how I love to see him smile.

“Burgers.”

The rest of the shopping trip passes in record speed as Oliver impatiently helps me with whatever I ask him to do. He loads the items into the back of my car, returns the cart, and all but runs back and jumps into the seat. His enthusiasm is contagious, and I admit I drive a little faster than usual to get home.

The burgers turn out perfect. Oliver puts so many toppings on his that he can barely get it into his mouth. Cheese, lettuce, red onion, tomato, and crispy bacon. I’m so busy watching him that I almost forget to eat, which is a rarity. He gets sauce all over his chin and nose, and he looks so ridiculous trying to eat his giant burger that I have to laugh. He laughs with me, and his eyes dance with joy.

God, I’ve missed having these moments with him. How the hell did I make it so many years without him in my life?

When we’ve polished off our plates, he wipes his hands and leans back with a sigh. “That was amazing.”

You’re amazing, I want to tell him, but the words get stuck in my throat. It’s not the right time to bring up how much I’ve been missing him or how much I crave having him in my life. I hope that some day, I can show him.

He tilts his head and brings a hand up to squeeze his neck, and his expression twists with discomfort. I mentioned giving him a massage yesterday, and unlike that morning, I don’t have anywhere to be but with him.

“Sit there.” I point at the bar stool, and he stands up and sits without hesitation. I stand behind him and put my hands on his shoulders, testing the give of his muscles. “You’re on your computer too much.”

“I know.” He hunches his back.

“Sit up straight.” I squeeze his shoulders, and he sucks in a breath and straightens up. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

“Okay,” he gasps.

I ease into it, kneading his neck and shoulders. I always need to be aware of my own strength when doing this. Oliver lets out a few whining noises but otherwise sounds like he’s enjoying it. He relaxes bit by bit into my touch, and eventually, I have him melting into my hands.

“That feels so good,” he mumbles. “Can you do my back too?”

I reach down, but it’s hard to do his back properly at this angle.

“I can lie on the couch,” he suggests, and alarm bells start ringing in my mind, but I ignore them.

I’m just giving him a massage. That’s all.

Oliver drapes himself over the couch, and I kneel on the floor, putting my hands on his back. This angle is not the best either, and my knees start aching pretty fast.

“You can sit on top of me,” Oliver says after I adjust my position one too many times. “It’s okay.”

For him, maybe it is, but for me, I’m not so sure. Hesitating, I straddle his hips, highly aware of our proximity. He looks so small underneath me, so fragile. My hands appear massive on his body. If I splay my fingers and put my palms by his spine, I can reach my fingertips all the way to the tops of his shoulders.

After a while, I manage to find a tender spot that has him tensing up and whimpering into the couch.