Page 99 of Checking Out the Librarian

Safe, seen, and stable was a phrase he’d memorized to describe how to prevent Connor from dropping too far.

Disentangling their bodies wasn’t what he wanted to do, but Connor’s wellbeing came first, so he moved.

“It was the best birthday I’ve ever had and that was because of you.” While he found the edge of the duvet and wrestled it from under Connor’s legs, he brushed his lips on the base of Connor’s throat and glided a kiss across his cheekbone, already retreating from red to pale pink. “Thank you.”

Silly comfort kisses, but Connor liked them. He nuzzled into Connor’s neck when he tucked the duvet close around him.

“I’m proud of you Connor. You listened very well.” Praising Connor was the easiest part of the aftercare routine. He sensed Connor’s body unfurling and flattening deeper into the mattress.

“Our play is finished tonight. You did well, so very well.” He’d nailed keeping him warm and making him feel appreciated, but stable required water and snacks, and he’d screwed that up. A better partner would have staged those in the room so that he wouldn’t have to leave Connor’s side.

Next time. At least there was a glass in the bathroom.

“I’m going to get water, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t go.” He was mumbly and immobile, barely present, and Jonathan wanted to drape himself over the top of the blanket mound and say so many sweet words.

“I’ll be right back. You need water.”

“Come back.”

“I will absolutely come back.” He’d almost said always, but that was sex talk, just sex talk. He was so ill-prepared for this, but at least he could get fluid into Connor, and next time, he’d be even better about preventing the drop.

Because yes, there was clearly going to be a next time.

21

PICKLEBALL WITH A GUY WHO LOOKS LIKE HANK

Waking Jonathan up before seven on a day off was no way to thank him for last night, and yet Connor couldn’t stay in bed.

Everything under his skin was expanding the longer he laid here looking at Jonathan’s mussed dark hair, the soft curves of eyelashes against his smooth upper cheeks, and the tiny traces of dark hair above his upper lip and scattered across his chin. But this was the Fourth of July holiday, and Jonathan didn’t have to work.

Connor knew not to disturb him with something as trivial as his need to touch the inside of his elbow to see if it felt as silky as it looked. He had to get out of bed. Besides, he and Hank were playing pickleball at nine.

Two hours gave him enough time for walking Ribby, taking a clean-up-the-evidence type of shower, and baking a batch of raspberry walnut muffins. He was starving and ate two bowls of oatmeal while waiting for the ding of the oven timer.

Last night…

He wanted to think about it, wanted to relive the feelings and think about how Jonathan had looked in the white shirt and pin, how he’d tapped into thoughts Connor never said out loud, and then the pretty words and petting after, what that all meant, but he had baked goods to manage and pickleball in forty-five minutes.

Thinking about last night would require a couch, a blanket, and a dog nose.

So, later.

Before he left for the court, he snuck three things on the table next to Jonathan’s side of the bed: a travel cup of coffee with a lid to keep it hot, which the anteater mug couldn’t do; a warm muffin covered with a napkin; and a note about his pickleball game.

He watched Jonathan for another moment, but he didn’t want to be creepy. Or, he wanted to be creepy but had epic self-control, so after two moments, only two, he shuffled out of the room and closed the door. If he couldn’t wake up Jonathan, Ribby wasn’t allowed either.

Even the stairs silently cooperated with his plan to let Jonathan sleep late. Sports bag and water bottle in hand, he went to the driveway.

Wait. He didn’t have a car.

When he’d made his ambitious plan to run back to the park and retrieve a car, he hadn’t remembered Friday pickleball.

Connor

Can you pick me up