“Bathroom first,” he says, pulling the sheet over his shoulder. “Then the living room. I want to make it white and clean. After that, wiring and ceiling. Kitchen and second bedroom come last.”
I bite my lip. Just listening gives me a headache. This place indeed needs a full resurrection.
“Sounds intense. What about that tree in the shed? Are you going to cut it down?”
He makes an offended noise followed by a soft laugh, as if I've just suggested something outrageous.
“Hell no. I'm tearing down the shed. The tree stays. It belongs here.”
A little smile tugs at his mouth, almost shy.
It’s a small thing, but it’s so him. The way his expression softens when he says those words. How many times a day can my chest do funny things?
“Please stay like this, Yosh. Don’t ever change for anyone.”
I’ve got no clue where that came from, but I meant every damn word I just whispered.
He looks away, swallowing something down.
Am I pushing too far? Probably. But there’s a depth to Yosh I clocked the first time we met in Arcadia. I want him to know I see it. That I see him.
And I get it, vulnerability isn’t exactly his strong suit. He doesn’t practice what he preaches, and I’ve pieced together that he’s the type to run when things get too intense.
I recognized the act as I perfected it myself over the years.
So I'll give him time. Even if those half-answers and silences about personal stuff drive me insane. I won’t rush him.
He gives me that same space without expecting anything back.
He doesn’t want to fix me. He just lets me be.
Yeah. Maybe that’s what not fucking everything up looks like.
Chapter twenty-two
Yosh
Iwake to birdsong, a rooster crowing somewhere in the distance, and the powerful rush of the ocean slamming against the rocks.
I’m still getting used to the sounds here. Arcadia wakes softly, all rustling palms and calm water. This side of the island is different— raw and untamed.
Morning has already found its way into the room. Thin strips of gold spill through the shutters, cutting across the floor, the sheets, the chair where Tom dropped half his clothes last night like the unapologetic disaster he is.
I let myself arrive slowly into the morning, letting the sounds and light settle into me. Then the touch registers, and my eyes fly open, my body going rigid.
Tom’s leg is tangled with mine, his hand resting warm and possessive on my stomach.
The sensitive skin beneath my ear is being teased by the warm gush of his breath. Yes, that one spot he’s vampire-level obsessed with.
It has my body giving out and my cock giving in, needy and eager.
I try to call his name, but only a sad squeak escapes.
I shouldn’t let this happen, but I can’t make myself to move his hand. Not now his fingers are tracing idly shapes just below my navel, drawing each of them slow enough that my lungs keep stuttering.
I thread my fingers through his to hold him in place, just below my ribs.
We trade small clumsy strokes with our thumbs.
