“Tell me if…”
“I will.”
I pushed in slowly, so slow. The angle was different here. Shallower. Closer. Every bit of the metal pulled a small breath out of him, familiar by now, the shape of a sensation he’d learned to want. Tonight, it landeddeeper. Tonight, everything landed deeper.
“Jett.” His voice came cracked.
“I know.”
“Don’t let me leave again.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I moved in him deliberately. One arm stayed wrapped around his chest, palm spread over his sternum, the barbells warm against the side of my hand. His hand locked over mine. My other hand reached down between us, slicked itself on the lube still wet on my fingers, and found his cock. Started stroking him slow, in time with my thrusts, the way he liked, the way he’d taught me. We breathed in unison. He turned his face back toward mine.
“I love you,” he said, wrecked. “I love you, don’t leave me.”
“Never.”
He came with his hand clamped over mine on his chest and my name in pieces in his mouth. I followed him over the edge; one, two strokes later, my mouth pressed to the back of his neck, both of us shaking.
I stayed inside him. Didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hand stayed locked over mine on his chest.
“Stay,” he whispered.
“I’m staying.”
I eased out of him and he turned in my arms, pressed his face into my chest, his palm finding the Libre tattoo and resting there. The sheets smelled like my detergent and the memory of the last time he’d slept in this bed. My arm wrapped around him. His palm stayed flat over my heart, like he needed proof that it was still beating.
The city sounds came through the window. Distant sirens, the rumble of the subway, the ambient hum of Brooklyn carrying on without us. Inside that room, inside that bed, inside that moment, there was nothing but thetwo of us and a darkness that felt softer now that he was in it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered into the dark.
“I know.”
The truth was, I didn’t know. But knowing wasn’t the prerequisite anymore. Choosing was.
His breath deepened as he drifted toward sleep, and I lay there awake, afraid that if I closed my eyes, he’d disappear again. Afraid the pause would resume without warning. Afraid I was still in some version of the space he’d needed, and he’d wake up and remember he’d been the one who had to leave.
I forced myself to breathe. Let my eyes close. Trusted that if he needed to go, he would. He was still here.
Morning light came through the windows slow and deliberate, taking time to be gentle. Ellis was still there. That was the first thing I registered when I woke up. His presence. The solid weight of him. The way the light hit his profile, and he looked younger than he had the day before, like sleep had been something he needed, like coming back to me had been exhausting and his body was collecting the debt.
I didn’t move. I watched him. His eyelashes created shadows on his cheeks. His mouth sat slightly open. His hand had found my hip even in sleep, gripping like his body knew better than to let go. Some part of him, the part that lived below conscious thought, still sat terrified I’d disappear if he relaxed his hold.
I lay there and breathed him in. Under the detergent was his skin. Warm and close and real. I dragged my fingertips across his shoulder blade, feather-light. He made a small, waking sound and pushed closer.
“Still want me?” I whispered. Vulnerable in a way I hadn’t let myself be vulnerable since the beginning.
He didn’t answer right away. Eyes stayed closed. His hand tightened on my hip. He shifted closer, pulled me into him, breathed me in as if that was answer enough. His legs tangled with mine. His forehead found the space between my shoulder and my neck. His whole body molded into mine, trying to become something we shared.
It was answer enough.
His morning cock pressed warm against my thigh. I let my hand skim down his back, slow, mapping the familiar dips and ridges. He hummed. His mouth found my collarbone, lazily. Not urgent. Just certain.
