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He starts with Simon’s boots. The laces are double-knotted and stiff with whatever the kitchen spilled on them. Jamie works one loose, pulls the boot free, and immediately wrinkles his nose. “Jesus.”

“Unwrap him.”

Jamie puts the boots together beside the bed, then peels off Simon’s socks and drops them on top. I’ll throw them away. Simon has better ones in the dresser.

His shirt takes more work. Jamie opens the buttons, but Simon’s too heavy and too unconscious to cooperate when Jamie tries to pull one arm free. After the second attempt, Jamie looks at me.

“Figure it out.”

He rolls Simon onto his side.

It’s not graceful. Simon’s arm flops across Jamie’s shoulder, and Jamie ends up half underneath him while wrestling the shirt down his back. He swears into the mattress, gets one sleeve loose, shoves Simon onto his back again and pulls the other free.

When he finally stands, his hair is across his face and Simon’s shirt is balled in one fist. He drops it onto the boots.

I know the shape of his shoulders beneath a T-shirt and the way the muscles in his back move when he reaches across the line. I know the pale splash of an old burn near his waist from a night his shirt rode up carrying boxes to the dumpster. Which arm he favors. How often he rubs the back of his neck after ten.

None of that’s the same as this.

I put my hands on him. I start at his shoulders, the heat of a man who worked all day still trapped under the skin, then I follow the muscle down his chest and over the hard plane of his stomach. The old burn near his waist is paler up close, tight and shiny at the edge.

I trace the whole splash of it, then move lower, over the trail of hair disappearing into his trousers. I leave my hand there and watch his stomach jump once in his sleep.

Jamie reaches for Simon’s belt. He tugs twice before the buckle comes loose. He opens it, unfastens Simon’s trousers, and glances at me again.

I raise my eyebrows.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls.

Simon’s cock comes free, heavy against his thigh, thicker than I expected, half hard from nothing but being handled. The head is dark. There’s a vein along the top I could follow with a fingernail. I look at the whole of him. Hair. Heavy balls. The blunt head.

Simon shifts against the bed. A low sound catches in his throat. His eyes stay closed. Jamie gets the trousers over his hips, works them down several inches, and stops.

I wait for him to continue. “Jamie.”

His hands stay where they are.

I take my attention off Simon’s cock. Scars sit high on his inner thigh, a small brutal map. I trace them with two fingers. Simon makes another sound. His cock twitches against my wrist.

Most are old enough to have gone pale. They cross one another without any pattern, some thin and nearly lost against his skin, others wider and raised enough to catch the red light. This was beneath his trousers the entire time, and I didn’t know.

Jamie says nothing beside me.

Then I see the one that is still pink. “What the fuck is that?”

Jamie jerks his hands away.

I drive my forearm into Jamie and shove him out of my way before putting one knee beside Simon’s hip. I catch Simon by the jaw and slam his head into the pillow. “Open your eyes.”

He manages halfway. His gaze wanders past my face before sliding shut again.

I slap him open palm. Hard enough that his cheek takes the print.

Jamie goes completely still.

“Open your fucking eyes.”

Simon does. Barely.