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s nothing.
I climb in and lie on my side, facing the open door. I can make out his faint outline, the red hair on his head and face, the tip of his nose, the part of his lips. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or not. His chest rises and falls, and I wonder about things I’ve never thought before, like if he needs air to live like I do, if he breathes wherever it is he came from. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt his heartbeat. Does he have one? Is there a pulse in his neck, hidden under the red stubble? I want to find it, I think before I can stop myself. I want to find it with my tongue.
Logic sets in then, along with my dismay at having thought such a thing. Angels might breathe, and their hearts might beat, but how can they want someone the way I do? And even if they—
he
—could, why would it be someone like me? I am nothing. I am no one. I am a small-town hick who will always be a small-town hick because I’ll never leave this small town. I will live here and I will die here. I won’t ever be someone he could want. I could never be enough for him.
But I want to be. I’m scared, but I want to try.
When did this happen? When did this start?
“Cal,” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be.
He sighs, like his name on my lips is something wonderful to him. He moves until he is lying on his side, facing me. I can see his eyes now, the whites reflecting back at me. My breath catches in my throat. Even in the dark, I can see how he’s not human. There’s something about him that feels far older than I could possibly imagine. Again I think I’m insignificant, nothing more than a fleck of dust flung far in a gust of wind. Before it can overtake me, I push the thought away.
I don’t reach out to people, not anymore. I don’t even let most people come to me. I push them away so I can remain buried in myself, in my own pity.
So I push most all of them away. The ones allowed in are only trusted because they have been here with me since Big Eddie died. They understand my pain even if not its depths. I don’t know how deep their own pain goes, but I know it’s nothing compared to my own. Selfish, yes. I know. I know that through and through. But pain is selfish. Grief is selfish. It demands attention, and the more you focus on it, the more it wants from you.
“Do you want me?” I manage to say.
Please. I can’t do this on my own. Help me.
He’s silent for a moment, continuing to watch me. I want to look away, embarrassed by the need that echoes in my voice, but I can’t seem to break the connection. Something is holding me there, and though I can’t name it, I don’t want it to go away.
“I shouldn’t,” he finally says, and I am ready to shatter into a billion pieces, but I hold my tongue and wait. It feels like I wait forever. “I shouldn’t because it’s not what I was made for. It’s not why I came to be. But yes, Benji. God help me, yes. I don’t want anything more than you. I want nothing less than you.”
I take this for what it is. This is the eighth day since he fell from the sky, since I found him in the crater. Eight days since I found out what he was, since I began to believe there might be something else out there watching over us. Over me. I don’t know if I can believe it all, because I don’t think enough time has passed for my mind to process the monumental implications of Cal’s existence.
But none of that matters now. I sit up on my bed.
“Cal?”
“Yes, Benji?”
“Will you….” Say it, say it, say it. “Will you come here?”
There’s no hesitation on his part. He rises from the floor, shaking the blanket off. He looks even bigger than before. Little House creaks under his weight as he walks toward me. I am aware of each breath, each step. He finally stands above me, and I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of wondering. I’m tired of being alone. I reach up and grab the front of his shirt and pull his lips down to mine.
He grunts in surprise but doesn’t pull away. He’s tentative at first, barely moving. His movements seem shy and unpracticed. It’s only then that I realize he’s probably never done this before, that this is his first anything, and I have to stop myself from groaning. It’s slightly awkward, this kiss; the angle is almost too much, and we’re not quite synced up. But then my tongue touches his lips and he sighs again. His breath goes from him into me, and it tastes like he smells, earthy and strong. There’s a touch of something spicy in there too that I chase after.
He keeps his hands at his sides as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. I let go of his shirt and wrap my arms around his neck as his tongue touches mine for the first time. A shock rolls up through me and he shudders along with me. He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against mine, panting as we watch each other. We’re so close together that I can see myself reflected back and I want more. All I want is what he can give.
It’s like he hears me, like he knows what I’m thinking. One moment he’s leaning against me and the next he’s all hands and collapsing. He falls against me, pressing me back onto the bed. His mouth is on mine again, and gone is the reticence, the inhibitions. He’s still a novice, but it doesn’t matter. His weight is pressed against me, it’s crushing me, but I don’t want him to move away. He moves his lips from mine and drags his tongue down my neck to the hollow of my throat as I play my fingers over the red stubble on his scalp. His breath is hot against my skin and I’m harder than I’ve ever been. I groan when he grinds into me, his stomach against my hips and dick. He pulls back, a look of shock on his face. He grinds again and I cry out. The smile that follows is not one I’ve seen on him before. It’s wicked and dark, as if he knows what he is doing to me and enjoys the hell out of it.
I want more.
I reach down to pull his shirt up and over his head. It catches on his chin and he snorts in laughter before pulling it off the rest of the way and then dropping it to the floor. He props himself up above me on his hands. I’m about to snarl at him to lay on top of me so I can feel his skin against mine when he looks between us and then back up at me, the shyness returning.
“What is it?” I ask breathlessly, running my eyes over his torso, matted in auburn curls that start on his chest and trail down to his stomach and into the top of his jeans. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never done this before,” he says, sounding frustrated.
I can’t wait any longer to touch. I reach up and run my fingers through the hair on his chest, rubbing my thumbs along his nipples. The muscle is hard underneath and I explore lower, touching his stomach, his navel. He groans as I roam my hands over him, but my exploration turns into something I never would expect to hear from him: a slight chuff that becomes a giggle. He’s ticklish there, on his sides near his hips, and this realization is something so endearing that I feel like I have the wind knocked out of me.
I reach the start of denim, and I need to be crushed again under his weight so I hook my fingers into his belt loops and pull him back down on top of me. The first thing I notice is the heat of him. Then it’s the hair on his body, soft and delicious against my own hairless torso. He is still chuckling when he kisses me again and his laughter pours from him into me and I can taste it like it’s a palpable thing. I wrap my legs around his waist and press my heels against the back of his legs, pushing him further into me. We rock together, and I don’t know how much longer I can last if we keep going this way. He’s obviously a quick study. He twists his tongue against mine and begins to reciprocate, moving his hands up and down my exposed chest.
