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Their many kisses, Henri realized. They had shared many kisses. Wow.

“Do not apologize for any of that.” Dylan patted his cheek and smiled fondly. “I’m apparently just not as young as I used to be. Let’s get cleaned up. I gotta pack, and I’m going to need breakfast for real.”

Was that a dismissal?

“Right. Of course. I’ll just⁠—”

“If you give me a couple minutes to grab my stuff and brush my teeth, I can come with you to your room if you want.”

A weight Henri didn’t know he’d been carrying disappeared. No dismissal. He hadn’t known he’d been dreading one until it hadn’t come.

“Yes,” he said simply. He didn’t trust himself to say more, because then he might do something embarrassing like thank Dylan for not casting him aside so soon.

“Cool.” Dylan kissed his cheek, only then stepping away to start grabbing at the clothing haphazardly thrown across the room. He reached into an oversized duffel, sniffed a few things, and then tossed a pair of joggers, briefs, and a heather-brown tee at Henri while he rummaged around for his own clean clothes.

Henri clutched them to his chest. It did nothing to stop his heart from melting.

CHAPTER 35

Dylan stayed glued to his side. He followed Henri like a lost puppy to his hotel room. He sat on the edge of Henri’s abandoned bed and babbled about their upcoming break before a long series of home games while Henri packed and got dressed. He followed Henri to the elevator, carrying both of their duffel bags. He sat with his thigh pressed tightly to Henri’s, first at breakfast, then on the bus, then on the plane, never more than an arm’s length away.

To top it off, the man had the audacity to fall asleep on Henri’s shoulder during the flight and drool on Henri’s best button-down shirt.

It was the most surreal twelve hours of his life.

But admittedly, Henri needed it. If things had gone completely back to the way they’d been yesterday, it would’ve made him doubt the morning had ever happened. It would be easier to believe he’d hallucinated the feel of Dylan’s cock pressed against his, or the sounds Dylan made when he came, or the shape and taste of his kisses. Those weren’t things Henri was supposed to be privileged to…and yet.

As they landed in Albuquerque, Dylan stirred. It took all of Henri’s willpower not to kiss his forehead. Instead, he let Dylan blink awake and stretch, then admired his lopsided smirk as he yawned.

“You busy tomorrow?” Dylan asked as they walked the long, secluded path to the private parking lot they used.

“We don’t have practice,” he said cautiously. “So no, I’m not busy.” He wasn’t even busy that night, really. Just laundry and catching up with his dad. Probably jerking off to help him relax after the whirlwind of his day.

“We should hang out.” There was a hint of something wrong in his tone, so different from his usual bravado, that Henri stopped walking to stare at him.

Dylan stopped a few steps after and turned back. “What?”

And there it was: uncertainty.

Despite everything, he was worried that Henri might reject him. Henri could sooner reject the air from his lungs, but he could hardly tell Dylan that without sounding foolish.

“I really do make you nervous,” Henri said, remembering their texts at the hotel. It was so absurd; at the time, he’d thought Dylan was joking. Teasing him, maybe, or at the very least exaggerating. It hadn’t occurred to him that Dylan was serious.

“A little, yeah.” He swallowed and looked around, but the rest of the team was well ahead of them as they rushed to get home to their families and enjoy their first window of time free from hockey in the last two weeks.

Henri offered a weak, hollow laugh. He realized it was his fault. While his perception of the world was spinning out from under him, he’d been maintaining the outward appearance of stoic calm that he’d had to master to survive the media. Once a well-meaning teammate on the Ice Owls had pointed out that it came across more as resting bitch face than the quiet dignity he’d been going for.

Henri scrunched up his face and forcibly relaxed it to rid himself of whatever expression he’d been wearing all day. How could he already be fucking this up?

“Come over for dinner,” Henri said, because if Dylan could put forth the effort to be warm and act like he still wanted to soak up Henri’s presence, then Henri could sure as fuck meet him halfway. “I can make pasta or...” He hadn’t been at his apartment in weeks. There wouldn’t be anything else. “Just pasta. Or we could order some takeout. There’s a place down the block that⁠—”

“Yes. Pasta.” Dylan was grinning from ear to ear. “Cook dinner for me, s’il vous plaît.”

The words lit a fire low in Henri’s belly and unfortunately his dick stirred. Too early, he warned.

“S’il te plaît,” he corrected. “The vous is formal. Te is more…friendly. Casual.”

Intimate.