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I get that belonging usually makes people feel safe and wanted and happy, but fuck that shit. Belonging makes me feel terrified, horrified, and panicked, on account of me having massive abandonment issues. Belonging makes me picture, clear as day, the after. That moment when I get comfortable and used to having this, only to then have it snatched away from me.
Which is why I would never voluntarily put myself in this situation.
Except somehow I’m in it now.
I want to leave, but the problem is I also want Ryker. And as of right now, the wanting Ryker part is still stronger than the self-preservation part.
So I stay put.
I put on some clothes. There’s cum on my T-shirt, so I borrow one of Ryker’s sweatshirts. He’s got a whole drawer filled with those. Seriously, how many sweatshirts does a person need? I make the bed, I take out my books and boot up my laptop, I put on some music for background noise, I settle in behind Ryker’s desk.
And I get to work.
RYKER
When I get home, I find Lake sitting behind my desk. Soft music is playing in the background. He’s chewing on the end of a pen. Every once in a while, he lets the pen go so it dangles from between his lips as he types something on his laptop.
It looks ridiculous.
But then… he’s wearing my sweatshirt. And that, somehow, makes everything about this anything other than ridiculous.
He’s so deeply in the zone he doesn’t even hear me come in, and for a while, I just stand there and look at him.
There’s a strange feeling in my chest.
I’m not sure what alerts him to my presence, but he turns his head and meets my gaze. For a moment, there’s a slightly dazed look on his face before he blinks back into the present.
And then he smiles.
Completely unguarded.
“You’re back,” he says.
I nod and hold up the bag of takeout. “With food.”
He gets up from his chair and stretches, arms extended high up toward the ceiling.
“Regular orgasms and food I don’t have to cook myself. I could get used to this,” he says. And I know—I know—it’s just an offhand comment, but it does something to my insides. Some kind of gentle longing settles over me. Not heavy or prominent enough for it to hurt. Not soft enough to dismiss it completely.
Lake walks toward me and takes the bag. He puts it on the counter and peers inside before he looks up.
“Stifado?”
I nod.
“I like stifado,” he says.
“I know.”
He stops taking the containers out and gives me the weirdest look. Like I’ve suddenly handed him something invaluable. Hell, he didn’t look at me like that when I told him I’d just wired him tuition for four semesters, but bring him some Greek food and his face goes all soft.
He clears his throat and looks away.
“I haven’t had it in forever,” he says.
He sets the table, and I lay out the food, and we settle at the counter. After two hours of passing and skating drills, I’m famished.
“Did you finish studying?” I ask in between bites.
