Page 48 of Wedge

“I know. It’s just old now.” I trace a finger along his forearm, needing something to do with my hands. “You waited. That’s why this,” I gesture vaguely between us, the blanket, the fire pit, all of it, “Feels different. Nobody’s ever waited.”

He’s quiet for a minute, jaw working like he’s deciding something.

“I need you to know something. I’ll never ask you to…” He swallows and forces out the words. “To bottom. Not ever.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m happy to bottom. More than happy.”

I huff and chuckle. “Kinda noticed.”

“Oh, you did?” he laughs. “Kinda meant you to.” He squeezes me, then says, “I mean it, though. I won’t ask.”

“We’ll see,” I reply. “I never have after… well… but everything is different with you. I trust you.” I press my mouth to his, nibble on his lips, then rest my head on his shoulder again.

He tightens his arms again, snuggling me closer under his chin. “Trust is a big goddamn deal. Nobody hands it to you. You earn it.” He nuzzles my head, kissing above my ear. “And waiting’s easy for me. Four years in the Corps, hurry up and wait was most of the job. I’m good at it when it matters.” A beat. “I’d like to lose the condoms, eventually. I’ll get tested?”

I nod against his lips. “Me too.”

The fire’s still going beside us, that easy blue-orange flame that doesn’t need tending, and it’s my stomach that finally breaks the moment, a low growl loud enough that Stephen laughs against my hair.

“Round two of breakfast?”

“Give me a minute. I’m savoring.”

“Savor faster. I can hear you starving.” He kisses the top of my head anyway, in no real hurry, and it’s easy and comfortable, the kind of morning-after conversation I didn’t know I wanted until I had it. He traces small circles on my shoulder right over the skull tat, like he can’t quite stop touching me now that he’s allowed to.

Back inside, he puts together sliced beef sandwiches, piling them high with lettuce and tomatoes and a big dollop of some mustard with actual seeds in it.

“Six weeks,” he says. “What’s that look like on your end? Still got the apartment?”

“Still got the apartment.” I make a face. “It’s cheap, and it’s close to the range I use.” It’s not much else, if I’m honest, but I don’t want to whine. It’s a place to sleep, mostly, that I could afford with the money I made hauling.

“I’ll run you back after lunch. Ben sent the schedule: swing coach, sports psych. Busy week, and it’s a haul from Aurora up to Genesee.” He kisses the top of my head. “You could always stay here, you know. Cuts the drive in half.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ve got actual belongings there. My truck. A life, allegedly.”

“Allegedly,” he agrees, not pushing.

The drive out to Aurora dulls the excitement a bit as the downtown skyline shrinks in the mirrors. The glass gives way to strip malls, used car lots, pawn shops with grates on the windows, and plain eighties apartment complexes. Stephen’s quiet the whole way, jaw tight in a way that tells me exactly what he thinks of the neighborhood before he says a word about it.

“It’s fine,” I say, catching him looking at a boarded-up storefront we pass. “It’s not the nicest part of Aurora. But it’s cheap.”

“I believe you.” He doesn’t sound like he believes me.

My building’s a three-story stucco thing, paint peeling around the window frames, a dead potted plant by the front entrance that’s been dead since I moved in. Stephen parks, and I can feel him cataloging everything: the cracked walkway, the busted intercom panel, the general sense that maintenance requests around here go to die.

“Third floor,” I say, already moving for the stairs, mostly to get this over with before he says anything. The stairwell smells like old carpet and fried onions, and one light has been flickering since spring.

We reach the third-floor landing just as Manuel’s door opens, next to mine, and the smell hits before he does. Weed and cigarette smoke thick enough to taste. He’s shirtless, his red and black ink crawling up both arms and across his chest, a gold chain, the whole menacing look he clearly works hard at. He steps fully into the hallway instead of staying in his doorway, close enough that I have to angle around him to get to my door, which he’s done before and which I’ve learned not to react to.

“Well, look who’s back,” Manuel says, eyes flicking from me to Stephen and lingering there a beat too long, doing math. “Bring your boyfriend home, Adrian?”

“Not your business,” I say, keying my door, not looking at him. The way I’ve learned works best.

“Wasn’t a question.” He leans against his own doorframe, grinning around his cigarette. “Whole building knows you’re a homo, man, ain’t exactly a secret. Just didn’t peg you as the type to bring ’em home. Guess you got tired of sneaking around.”

“I am not sneaking around,” I say, more sharply than I mean to.

Something shifts in his face, a flicker of satisfaction at getting a reaction. “I notice things. Your truck’s been sitting out there all week, dark, nobody home. Longer than usual.” He taps ash onto the hallway carpet, deliberate, watching me. “Careful leaving this place empty so much, homie. Things happen to empty apartments.”

It’s not quite a threat, worded carefully enough to walk back if anyone ever called him on it, but it lands like one anyway, and I feel Stephen go very still beside me, the kind of still that’s worse than shouting.