Obiora’s thoughts went to Ejiro. He wondered if Ejiro had spoken to his mother yet, and felt a pinch of worry.
Earlier, after he’d finished eating dinner, he’d texted Ejiro “I’m about to do it, pray for me” along with the skull emoji. Ejiro had simply replied with a thumbs up. Obiora had felt a spark of worry; Ejiro hardly ever replied with emojis alone, they were almost always accompanied by a message. But Obiora had told himself Ejiro was probably nervous and possibly didn’t feel too chatty as a result. His mother tended to call in the evenings or late in the night after Ejiro had had dinner. Maybe he was so nervous waiting for her call that he couldn’t talk right now. That was all right.
The moment he got home, Obiora brought out his phone, and nearly dropped it when the device pinged with a new message.
It was from Ejiro.
Hey. Can I call you?
Of course, love, Obiora replied.
“Hey baby,” he answered on the first ring.
“Hi,” Ejiro said, his voice thick with tears.
Obiora froze in alarm. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Ejiro inhaled shakily, and when he spoke again, Obiora could tell he was trying not to cry. “Things with my mother didn’t go so well.”
“Baby,” Obiora said, his heart fucking breaking. “Fucking hell. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Ejiro was clearly crying now, but trying to be quiet. Oh God, his love. His heart. He hated that he couldn’t do shit—that he couldn’t immediately heal his lover’s pain right fucking now. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to hear your voice. Be with you.”
Obiora didn’t even hesitate when he said, “Do you want me to come and get you?”
Ejiro sucked in a sharp breath. “What?”
Obiora turned around and headed back out of his flat, locking the door behind him. “I’m heading to the station right now. You can meet me in the station in Manchester, yeah? I’ll pick you up, then you can come stay over at mine for the weekend.”
“Obiora.” Ejiro was crying again. “You don’t … you don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, too late. I’m in a cab,” he lied. “You were already going to come over tomorrow, so we’re just a little early,” he teased gently. “Pack everything you might need for the weekend, okay, baby? I’ll stay on the phone.”
“Okay. God. Okay. Obiora. Fuck, Obiora.”
Obiora’s chest fucking hurt. He could hear the confession in the way Ejiro said his name, even if Ejiro didn’t say the words outright, and that was enough.
TWENTY-NINE
WHEN EJIRO WOKE UP, HE inhaled a slightly trembling breath and felt like he’d been submerged in soft, golden warmth.
Obiora’s arms were wrapped loosely around him, their legs tangled together, and they were sharing the same pillow. Ejiro stared at his boyfriend’s sleeping face, his gently closed eyes and soft, pouting mouth, and felt so full of love he could burst with it.
That he’d wanted Obiora so badly last night, and Obiora hadn’t even hesitated, fuck, Ejiro loved him. After the disastrous phone call with his mother, despite how badly he’d wanted to be with Obiora, Ejiro hadn’t wanted to get on the hour-long train ride to Sheffield by himself—the thought alone had felt like torture, though he’d have done it in a heartbeat if Obiora had said he didn’t mind. But that Obiora had decided to come all the way down to Manchester instead so Ejiro didn’t have to be alone, was what made Ejiro feel like his heart was too big to be contained in his chest.
His mother’s manipulation—and yes, he was ready to admit that that was what it was—tried to come back to haunt him, but he refused to think about it, he refused to let it ruin this moment.
As he stared, Obiora’s breathing changed. His lips slowly tilted into a full-blown smile, his dimple flashing, though he didn’t open his eyes. Ejiro’s heart skipped a traitorous beat.
“Something on my face?” Obiora asked, his voice rough with sleep.
Ejiro trembled at the sound.
Obiora opened his eyes when Ejiro didn’t respond, raising a questioning eyebrow.
“I love you,” Ejiro whispered, unable to contain it anymore.
Obiora’s eyes widened, and his expression lit up like fireworks. “Baby—” he began, looking so freaking happy it made Ejiro feel slightly ashamed for not telling him sooner.
