Page 51 of Wedge

In the rearview, I catch him rolling his eyes, but he’s fighting a smile doing it, and that’s good enough.

Once at the apartment, we haul everything up in two loads, dominating the freight elevator for fifteen minutes, its dented walls rattling the whole way up. We tuck his spare mattress into the second bedroom and his dead Xbox onto a shelf in the closet. I make room on the main wall of the living room for the bookshelf, the good wall, the one you see first walking in, not tucked into a corner or a closet or anywhere a person hides things they’re not sure about people seeing. Adrian watches me clear space for it with something unreadable on his face.

“You don’t have to put it there.”

“I want it there.” I glance at him. “Unless you don’t?”

He shakes his head, so I unwrap the little model with SSV Normandy painted on the hull and set it on its shelf, a gorgeous ship with more detail than something this small has any right to have, and step back to admire the effect. “People walk in, and the first thing they see is the view and your spaceships. That’s the whole tour.”

“They’re not just spaceships. They’re Normandy-class frigates. There’s a difference.”

“No idea what that means.” I pull him against my side, chin on his head, both of us looking at the shelf like they’re pieces of art instead of plastic models from a video game he loves. “Teach me.”

“This is really happening,” he says quietly, like he’s still catching up to it.

“It is.” I press a kiss to his hair, giddy in a way I haven’t let myself be in years, maybe ever. “Got that list?”

He nods.

I lead him to the couch, and he tugs a worn piece of paper out of his pocket. One of his old yardage cheat sheets, I realize. He has covered the back in cramped handwriting.

He clears his throat, formal as a man about to testify. “Three columns. Yes. Maybe. No. Yes is what I already like. Need. Want. Maybe is what I want to try. No is no.”

“Got it.”

“Yes.” He runs a finger down the page. “You say ’good job’ out loud. Every time, even for small stuff.”

He looks up at me, guarded hazel eyes.

“Every time,” I say, smiling.

“And ’there he is,’ that one’s for everywhere, including the range.”

“And the other one? Good boy?”

His ears go red. “That one stays home.”

“Home it is.”

“You make sure I eat. You get to make me go to bed if I’m being an idiot about it. You look after me when I’m wrecked and I don’t have to explain why.” He swallows. “Touch is a yes. You have consent. The shoulder, the neck, hugs, your arms when we sleep. If you aren’t sure…"

“I’ll ask.”

“Even when it feels stupid.”

“Especially then.”

“Maybe.” He turns the page over. “Maybe is you picking what we do on my days off. I think I’d like that. Maybe is you fixing my collar in front of people. I’m not sure yet. Maybe is me calling you that name in public.”

That name. Daddy. I keep my face very still. It costs me. “Maybe is a fine column.”

“No.” He doesn’t soften these. These are important. “No yelling, ever. We did that one.”

“What do I do instead? When I’m scared, I mean. That’s when I get loud.”

That stops him. He looks up for the first time. “Wait, you get loud? You never get loud. You were a Marine.”

“Adrian, that’s bullets, not feelings.”