"We don't get enough time, do we?" he asks. His voice is quiet, direct enough that the question has no room to become teasing. "Just us."
The honesty of it lands in the center of my chest. I move closer and stand between his knees, setting my hands on his shoulders because answering immediately would make the feeling smaller than it is. His muscles are knotted beneath my palms. I work my thumbs into the base of his neck, slow and firm, until his head dips forward and a tired sound leaves him.
"No," I say. "We don't."
It's not an accusation. There's no one to accuse. Life is full. The children climb whoever stands still long enough to become furniture. Blake turns fear into work until someone physically removes the screen from his hands. Luca feels every shift in the house and then tries to make a safer one out of blankets. Luther holds the line until the line cuts into him. I stand where I'm needed and call it enough because most days, it is. But Grayson's got his hands around my wrists now, and he's looking up at me like he wants me closer than useful.
"I'm sorry," he says, not dramatically, not with shame, just tired honesty. "I get caught up in everyone else. I know you don't ask, but that doesn't mean you don't need anything."
"I don't need to be managed, Gray." I let my hands slide from his shoulders to his face, my palms framing his jaw. "I'm where I want to be."
His fingers tighten around my wrists. "That sounds like something you say from the doorway."
The words should be easy to answer. They're not. I've spent years being comfortable at the edge of rooms because the edge gives me the door, the windows, the sightlines, the first warning if something changes. Grayson knows that. He knows me wellenough to make the truth sound gentle and still leave it no place to hide.
"Stay with me," he says, pulling my hands down but not letting go. His forehead rests against my stomach, and his breath warms the fabric of my shirt. "Don't just make the room safe. Stay inside it with me."
I run my fingers through his hair, untangling the knots slowly. The gesture gives me time to put down the first answer that comes to me, the practical one, the one about locked doors and water and Luther expecting us to rest. Grayson doesn't need the guard right now. He needs the man who came in with him. I ease off his shoes, then his jacket, folding both beside the sofa because order's easier than confession, and he lets me until my hands stay too long on the edge of his sleeve.
When he looks up again, the exhaustion's still there, but something warmer's moved through it. Want, yes, but not only want. Recognition. Relief. The quiet ache of finally having the room to reach for something that belongs only to us.
"Maceo," he says, his voice low, his fingers curling into the hem of my shirt. "Please."
I don’t wait for a second invitation. I reach down and pull Grayson’s mouth to mine, the kiss rougher than anything we usually allow ourselves. He makes a quiet sound and drags me down with him, and for a moment I let myself sink into it.
Then the old habit kicks in. I pull back just enough to look at him, checking his face, his breathing, the tension in his shoulders. Grayson sees it immediately. His hand slides up the back of my neck and holds me there.
“Stop watching me like that,” he says, voice low. “I’m right here. You don’t have to guard this.”
I try to answer, but he kisses me again before I can, slower this time, like he’s trying to pull me out of my own head. His hands move over my back, under my shirt, and I let him strip it off.When he reaches for my trousers I help him, but my eyes keep flicking to his face, looking for any sign that this is too much, that I’m taking too much.
Grayson catches my jaw with one hand and makes me look at him.
“Maceo,” he says, quieter now. “You’re allowed to want this. I want you to.”
Something in my chest loosens. I reach for the lube without looking away from him and slick my fingers. When I touch him he exhales and spreads his legs wider, one hand still resting on the side of my neck like he’s keeping me anchored. I work him open slowly, watching the way his eyes go half-lidded, the way his mouth parts on a soft sound. Every time I start to pull my focus back to making sure he’s comfortable, he tugs me down and kisses me until I stop thinking about anything except the way he feels under my hands.
When I finally push into him, I have to stop halfway. The tight heat of him and the way he’s looking at me—like he’s been waiting for this too—hits harder than I expected. Grayson’s hands slide down my back and pull me the rest of the way in.
“There you are,” he breathes against my mouth. “Stay with me.”
I start to move, careful at first, still half-waiting for some reason to pull back. Grayson doesn’t let me. Every time my rhythm falters or I start to check myself, he kisses me or whispers my name or tightens his legs around my hips like he’s refusing to let me retreat into being careful. His hands stay on me the whole time—one in my hair, one on my back—keeping me close.
I can feel my knot swelling, catching on every thrust. Grayson feels it too. His breath stutters and he pulls my forehead down to his.
“Don’t pull away from this,” he says, voice rough. “I want you here. All the way here.”
That’s what finally cracks something open in me. I stop holding myself back. I bury my face in his neck and let myself take what he’s offering, deep and focused, no longer trying to manage the moment. Grayson holds onto me through it, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my shoulder like he needs the contact just as badly.
When I come, it’s with a low, broken sound against his skin, my knot locking us together as I spill inside him. Grayson follows right after, his body tightening around me in long, shaking waves as he comes between us with a quiet, shaky exhale.
I stay where I am, chest pressed to his, knot keeping us joined, his fingers moving slowly through my hair.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the sofa with the locked door at my back and Grayson warm beneath me. The building hums beyond the walls, distant and indifferent, but in here the only sounds are our breathing and the faint shift of leather when one of us moves. My face is tucked against his neck, and his arms are around me, holding tighter than his exhaustion should allow. Small tremors still move through him, fading slowly under my hands.
"Finally," he whispers, turning his head enough to press his mouth to my temple. The word's barely there, but I feel it more than hear it. His fingers move along my spine, slow and absent, as if he's reminding himself I'm still on this side of the door with him. "Thank you."
I lift my head enough to look at him. "For what?"
