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They figured it out, together.
They both did need to work, but neither of them had a rigid schedule. Burne was on sabbatical, turning all his data into something publishable; Devon was finalizing the plans for the hotel renovation and checking in on the beginnings of turning his new museum into three-dimensional graceful life, and also taking a few calls about those projects and that junior architects competition. They fell into a routine as if they’d always known it.
The mornings, with affection. Separating, Devon in the office and Burne borrowing the guest room and using the bed and small writing-desk to spread out notes. Texting each other for ridiculous reasons, from the presence of a pretty cloud to the dullness of a meeting to a question about wanting a tea and coffee break. Meeting up for traded kisses.
Long lunches, at the kitchen counter or out on the spectacular balcony. A few more hours to work. And then being done, one of them wandering over, finding each other.
They watched some of Devon’s favorite cooking shows. They found the local bookshop and spent a lot of money. They went for walks: along the pier, out on the beach, into the small shallow sea-caves. Burne, in his element, scrambled around rocks and dove enthusiastically into cave-formations and explored grass and moss and reeds. Devon, laughing, also grass-thin and bundled up in a big plum-hued sweater, put both hands into pockets and watched him with fondness and didn’t try to climb up the side of a cliff, but applauded when Burne did.
That one felt like a good compromise. Burne liked the outdoors, hikes, his mountain bike; that was his hobby, when he had time for hobbies. He’d wondered about that, on his drive up: he’d always liked the idea of sharing hikes with a partner, had vaguely assumed he’d eventually find someone who at least enjoyed being out in nature.
Devon couldn’t’ve done the more strenuous trails that younger grad student Burne had tried, and he never would. But he could and did keep up on long walks, with those long legs, and got excited about showing Burne his seaside village, the hills, the caves, the wooden walk of the pier and harbor village. He said, offhandedly, “There’re some great biking spots up in those hills, if you ever would like that; I shouldn’t try, but I’ll meet you after with pastries?” and Burne thought, yes, this, exactly this; and said so aloud, and kissed him, hands in Devon’s hair.
He’d discovered a compelling urge to touch the hair. So silky, so dark and pretty against his hands. Devon only smiled and indulged him.
Devon in bed was pretty and luscious too, generous and giving; he spent an entire evening and most of a night devoting himself to learning everything Burne liked, every spot of pleasure, intent as if planning a blueprint later, a diagram to learn by heart. Burne moaned and begged and made all sorts of shameless noises and came at least twice—he thought it was twice; everything kind of blurred into wild riotous heat and light, at the heart of the storm—before Devon finally pushed his legs up and slid inside him and fucked him, so deep and so thoroughly that Burne was practically incoherent. Devon kept it slow—never fast or rough—but the slowness turned everything dreamy and endless, pleasure continuously rolling through him in thick sugared waves.
From the long walks to the bedroom, it worked. It really did.Theyworked, and any last doubt Burne might’ve had, showing up at the Rose House, dwindled. All but gone.
The morning of the fifth day, they’d planned to go out after lunch. Devon had a favorite local wine shop that delivered and also did in-person tastings, and Burne was always interested in flavors and terroir. The weather, however, objected.
Burne said, as the rain lashed the tall windows, “It suits your house.”
Devon had a sip of maple-blackberry tea, cradling the mug in thin fingers. “It does. I sometimes sit here and watch it, out over the ocean.” He was wearing an oversized cable-knit sweater in deep teal, and he’d pushed the sleeves up; he had on jeans and striped socks in grey and violet. Burne had never found sock-feet adorable before. He did now.
He personally was used to packing lightly, and had tried to walk the line between impressing a man he was falling in love with, and being comfortably himself, which generally meant sturdy jeans or work pants in the field, and reliable shirts with lots of pockets when roaming around rocks, and T-shirts and hoodies at home. He’d brought a few nicer outfits he normally reserved for conferences, in case Devon liked men who dressed up.
Devon apparently liked men who were cozy and domestic, informal and casual and good for cuddling up against. Burne was one hundred percent good with that. This morning he’d thrown on sweatpants and a shirt he’d bought to support his niece’s dance troupe, under a hoodie from one of his uncle’s old band tours.
He leaned back against the kitchen counter. “We could do that if you want. Stay in, read…finish this coffee and have all the sex with you…”
“The coffee could wait.”
“Anticipation’s part of the fun. Nice and slow, you said.”
Devon made a face at him. Their mugs matched, not architecture puns this time but a pretty flowered set, in dark blue and dark red. “We could go out. I like that winery, and I can drive; I wouldn’t make you, in this weather.”
Burne swallowed heat in surprise. He wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but it made Devon tilt an eyebrow at him. “Did you think I couldn’t?”
“Um…I honestly hadn’t thought about it.” True, if evasive. Hehadn’tgiven it much thought. Devon hadn’t ever mentioned a car, and worked from home; while he’d been here, they’d always walked down the hill. And if Devon sometimes felt dizzy, and needed to avoid stress…that couldn’t be safe, could it…
Devon paused. Eyes level, across tea. “You assumed I couldn’t.”
“Um…”
“Well, you’re half wrong. I can drive—I’ve got a license. And a car, even. You parked behind my garage.”
He had. He’d thought—what? That it came with the house? Storage? But of course it hadn’t just come with the house; the house was Devon’s design.
He said, “Isn’t that stressful, if you—I mean, even for normal people—”
“Normal.”
“I didn’t mean that!” The wind picked up. It whipped water against the windows, sharp and quick. “I said that wrong. I mean for anyone. Driving. Is stressful. And in rain. That’s all I meant. I swear.”
Devon turned his tea around in fingertips, a measured motion. “It’s an Audi.”
“What?”
