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He would have kept musing, but he had to change his bag before he had an accident in the last place a health inspector would thank him for.
Moving to the bathroom, he opened up his cabinet and pulled out his supply of wipes, and a fresh bag, and a bag cover with stars and moons on it. It only took him a second to get the bag off and emptied, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the fact that he was getting good at his little routine.
There was some pride, of course. Peyton was the kind of person who had always wanted to be good at everything, but this was a new level. He dropped the used bag in the trash, then began to wipe himself clean, staring down at the angry red bit of his insides that now existed outside.
There was no feeling in it—no pain now that it was healed up from the surgery. It was just this part of him that only felt real whenever he looked down at it.
His free hand absently rubbed behind him—at his ass, and the hole that no longer existed. His body shuddered and he felt a heaviness in his chest again. He thought about the random sex-toy he had in his online shopping cart—complicated but promising the stimulation he was craving.
His hand moved to his cock, lifting up his balls, pressing on his perineum. A little zing of something shot through his limbs, but his dick remained as limp as ever. “Fucking stubborn, useless…” he started to mumble. Of course, it wasn’t fair to take his frustration out on his cock. It was his brain that was the problem—and his fears.
And his grief.
Moving to the toilet, he emptied his bladder, then washed his hands, swiping off his stoma one more time before drying the skin and attaching the bag. Tucking it into the cute little cover, he pulled his sweats back over his waist, then his shirt down. He washed up one last time, then grabbed the trash bag and ran it out to the curb before returning to the kitchen.
Brownies were back on his mind again. Comfort brownies.S’moresbrownies. They were his best recipe, and they were also his last shot. If the sad neighbor—whose life sounded just as complicated as Peyton’s—rejected those, there was no hope for him.
But Peyton was also the kind of man who did not like to give up. Not even on grumpy assholes like him.
Peyton was pretty sure the smell of baking chocolate had permeated at least a five-mile radius from his house by the time he was pulling the brownies out of the oven and sprinkling on a last little bit of the graham cracker crumble.
The bake was tricky because the marshmallows had to be treated delicately. Adding them right from the bag meant they’d turn to goo and ruin the bake. So, he’d freeze a few and mix them in. Then, when there was five minutes left, he’d pull the tray, add more to the top, and let them get perfectly browned by the time the brownies were done.
The recipe didn’t work out every time, but Peyton had spent years perfecting it. He still couldn’t get the vegan recipe to cooperate, but he was working on it.
Once he was finished and they were left out to cool, Peyton finally picked up his phone. There was an alert on the screen, and his heart gave a soft little thud when he realized that Austin from the app had written back.
His stomach was in his throat a bit when he swiped open the screen.
MarriageMan: Hey, cutie! I saw you match with me when you created your profile. How are you liking it so far? Any hot dates I can be jealous over? I’d love to chat if you have time.
Peyton looked away with a frown. Jealousy seemed cute and coy at first, but he’d never had great luck with men who wanted to get possessive outside of dirty talk when they were fucking the breath out of him.
Still, he couldn’t let one word throw him.
MarriageMan: I’m more than happy to chat. We can even exchange numbers if you want. I don’t really love the app system, and I’m much more responsive over text. Here’s my number if you do.
Peyton absently saved it into his phone, but he wasn’t brave enough to use it just yet. Instead, he pulled over a stack of paper and grabbed one of his gel pens from his little cup and began to scratch out a note for his neighbor.
Hi. I know this makes me seem like I can’t take no for an answer- which might be true but only when it comes to baked goods. I’m not offering these because I want you to owe me something, or that I think it’ll make us friends. I’m offering these because they’re amazingly delicious and sometimes bad days call for a brownie. -P
Short, to the point. Simple and maybe a little sweet. It was exactly the way he thought of his personality most days.
He tapped his finger on the brownies and decided they were good enough. They wouldn’t cut neatly, but messy and gooey was better than that store-bought look. Grabbing his little rolling slicer, he took his time, slicing them into even rows. The crumbs made it even more appealing, and he was careful not to brush too many away as he packed them into a little bento box he used to use for work lunches. It would preserve the heat and keep them warm. It was black with a hand-painted flower on the side, and he murmured a quiet prayer that the grumpy man wouldn’t toss it into the bin because he liked it.
It was one of the nicer reminders of his life before.
With a deep breath, Peyton left his phone on the counter and headed out the front door. A small part of him started to panic when he noticed movement in his neighbor’s front window. The blinds were closed, but there was a small crack, and Peyton almost turned around to flee.
“Be brave, dipshit,” he cursed at himself. “You’ve survived worse than a bad attitude and a sharp tongue.”
He sucked in a deep breath, then made his way up the ramp, which he realizedwasfor this man and not still there because the guy couldn’t be assed to remove it. Hell, it was probably why his neighbor bought the house in the first place.
With trembling fingers, he hovered a touch by the doorbell before pushing down, then he waited with his breath stuck in his throat for someone to answer.
A minute ticked by—nearly two before he almost lost his bravery and turned to run away. But just as he started took three steps down the ramp, the lock snicked open and the man from the back yard appeared. Sitting in his wheelchair, his head came to Peyton’s shoulder which probably meant standing up, he was massive.
He was all bulk and hotness—dark haired, olive skinned, a chiseled jaw with broad shoulders and biceps that were threatening to tear free of his sleeves. He was exactly the man that would have sent Peyton to his knees in a club if they’d met one night—anonymous, and without the ugliness of rejected bakes between them.
