He nodded, “Yeah.”
“I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to get through the rest of the day without getting hard thinking about what we just fuckin’ did.”
John laughed weakly, tears forming at the corners of his eyes for some reason, suddenly grateful that Wyatt’s perceptive gaze couldn’t see that closely through the phone.
“You okay?” Wyatt asked quietly.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He stared, eyes narrowing.
“I’m good,” John insisted. “Go.”
Wyatt hesitated before saying, “I like it when you call me by my first name.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat, unable to look away at all the raw, honest vulnerability in the younger man and wishing he could be more like him, more honest with himself and everyone around him. A life without armor, John wondered, marveling at the possibility.
“I like it even better when it's in bed.” Wyatt’s smile widened into a mischievous grin.
John laughed, feeling content and… “God, I like you.”
Wyatt froze, and so didhe.
Oh fuck!
“Shit, I—that’s not what you meant—I…” John fumbled, panicking, grabbing clumsily at his phone, needing to end the call.
Fuck!
“John.”
No.
“John…!”
He managed to hang up, cursing angrily at himself. Flipping off his glasses and pushing his fingers into his eyes, he let out a groan.
What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t. He was in full post-orgasmic glow and admitted to something that had been swirling inside him since—well, since the moment Wyatt had first kissed him.
He liked him. A lot. And he knew it was bad because he told himself that he wouldn’t do this. That he wouldn’t get involved with someone who would eventually leave, because everyone always did. And Wyatt especially wouldn’t want a future with him—how could he? John was old, broken, and… fuck. Wyatt deserved a king. Someone who could take care of him the way he took care of others. Someone like him, adventurous, fun, and full of life. Because he had so much life to live. He couldn’t possibly want to settle down with a nearly 50-year-old burnout doctor who looked forward to boring nights sitting out on his patio, drinking wine and looking at the stars.
Wyatt’s future was bright and big.
And not with him.
John blindly headed to his shower and heard his phone vibrate, alerting him to a call. He ignored it, knowing it was possibly Wyatt.
Shame ate away at him underneath the hot spray of the shower, and he hated himself for being so vulnerable, so stupid. They both agreed to the terms of this situation, and he had declared that if feelings were caught, it would have to end. But he couldn’t give Wyatt up, and it made him feel so weak to admit this to himself.
John scrubbed a hand over his face, lost in conflicted, raging emotions.
He felt like a tiny boat caught in a storm at sea, rolling between two crushing waves. One wave made him feel as if he could touch the clouds and the sky abovehim, elated and happy because of a very clear emotion that gripped his heart like a vice.
But he couldn’t acknowledge that emotion. It was too dangerous. The next wave slammed into him, nearly making him gasp at the drowning fear that plunged into the pit of his stomach.
Finally, after a long scalding shower, he walked back into the bedroom and saw the missed call on his phone. Gritting his back molars, he checked it and saw that it wasn’t Wyatt—it was Justine, his sister.
He opened it and saw the text message from her.
