Page 267 of What We Burn

Milo looks at me. A gummy bear is frozen halfway to his mouth. “Micah? Your call.”

I look at Eli, searching for the irony, the sarcasm, the knowing wink that says this is a setup, a tease, a joke meant to be thrown back and forth until someone breaks and the game spills over into living room wrestling and Milo yelling “Uncle!” from underneath the couch cushions. There’s none of that. There’s just Eli’s steady gaze, and Milo’s open, expectant face, and the pounding in my chest that’s building its own momentum, making my hands tremble in my lap.

“Now?” I ask.

“Now,” Eli confirms. He hasn’t blinked once. “Unless you want to wait for Sage to get home and make it weird? Or hotter. Depending.”

I look at Milo. “Yeah. I want to.”

Milo swallows. His cheeks are pink. He pushes the gummy bears aside and moves toward me. Not abruptly, but not slow, either—just a straightforward shift from sitting cross-legged to his knees, closing the gap between us with none of his usual feints or banter.

I put the book down and wait. Milo looks at my mouth, then my eyes, then back down. He’s so much less certain than he is with Sage—more careful, more reverent, like he’s worried a strong wind will blow the whole scenario back into not happening. He’s close enough that I can smell the gummy bears on his breath and see the tiny constellation of freckles over his nose that I hadn’t registered until right now. I reach up and touch his jaw, gentle, no pressure, just an anchor point in case he wants to abort. He doesn’t. He closes his eyes and meets me softly, his mouth barely there at first, then firmer when I don’t recoil or laugh. He doesn’t ruin the moment with a joke.

His lips are softer than I expected, and he kisses the way he does everything—enthusiastically, a little chaotically, fully committed. His hand comes up to the side of my neck and I feel his pulse through his palm, jackrabbit fast. The man is nervous, and that might be the most disarming thing that’s ever happened to me.

It’s a good kiss. It’s a really good kiss. He tilts his head and opens his mouth and the chaos settles into a rhythm. The kiss is exploratory and warm, and I’m just starting to sink into it when⁠—

A hand fists in my hair and yanks me back.

Before I can register what’s happening, Eli’s lips are on mine. This isn’t the tender, measured kiss Eli usually gives me. This is the other Eli—the one with teeth and hunger and a raw, possessive fury that I’ve only ever seen aimed at Sage.

Or when we’re fighting.

He kisses me like he’s trying to leave a mark. Like he’s rewriting every careful, restrained kiss he’s ever given me with this one, brutal, unequivocal answer.

When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His hand is still in my hair, grip tight, his eyes black and blazing.

“Turns out it’s not pointless,” he pants.

“No?”

“I’m jealous.” His voice is low. Rough. “I’m so fucking jealous I can’t see straight.”

Something cracks open in my chest—not pain, not relief. Something bigger. Something that’s been locked in a box for years, waiting for exactly this.

He stands. Pulls me up by the front of my shirt. Starts walking me backward toward the stairs.

“Well, okay then,” Milo calls from the living room floor. “That was a good kiss. But I’m sorry you don’t get to suck my dick anymore, Micah.”

I release a startled laugh. “I’ll live,” I call back, just as Eli shoves me up the stairs and strips off his shirt. “Sorry you’re not getting that blow job anymore.”

“It’s okay,” he calls up the stairs. “I’ll jack off down here by myself.”

Eli’s mouth ticks up on one side as he shoves me onto the mattress and kicks the door closed.

SIXTY-SEVEN

ELI

Micah stares up at me from the mattress, eyes wide, like we’ve stepped off a cliff together and neither of us packed a parachute.

He sprawls across the bed where I pushed him, his shirt rucked up to expose the lean muscles of his stomach, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. His lips are still red and swollen—first from Milo’s mouth, then from mine. His hair is a mess, sticking out at wild angles where my fingers twisted his auburn curls.

I should stop. Ask if he’s okay. Check boundaries the way I always have, the way I’ve conditioned myself to do for years, equating restraint with respect and softness with devotion.

I’m done being careful.

“Eli—”