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“I can’t make promises. I can’t commit to anything. Even if I want to. So can we please leave it at ‘I’ll see you soon’?”
The pain eases a little. “Yeah. Sorry. I don’t mean to be too much.”
He shakes his head. “You aren’t. Never have been. My life is just complicated right now, and I don’t want to hurt you.” Then he leans in, hesitates like maybe he doesn’t want to do this, and then he takes one last kiss.
It makes my toes curl and my head spin a little, and I bask in the feeling as he stands up, leaves the room, and closes the door behind him.
The emptiness of the room is pressing, but not nearly as heavy as it was before he came in.
And hell. Maybe that means something too.
NINE
RUNE
I don’t let myself think about it. I can’t. It’ll ruin me if I do. I don’t let myself acknowledge it or accept it. I’m not ready to take accountability for what I’ve done.
Or admit that I liked it more than I’ve liked anything in a long, long time.
Or how hard it was to walk away because Easton probably would have let me curl up in his arms and sleep the rest of the night there. My parents wouldn’t have cared either. Elio would have mocked me relentlessly for being sappy—or whatever tweens are calling it these days.
It would have been fine, and that’s the gutting part because it would have been fine, but I still had to walk away.
I’m halfway back to my parents’ when I start shaking, and it’s by some miracle alone that Elio is already done with his nighttime medication and is sleeping in his bed. My mom’s on the couch, and my dad’s at the kitchen table doing one of those 3D puzzle boxes that I got him for his birthday.
He looks up at me with a smile, and I feel momentarily comforted. The one thing I think I did right was being as good a father as he is.
“Hey, kid. You look a little rough. You okay?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I need a shower.”
“Your mom said it was a big computer mess?”
“Something like that.” It was definitely a mess, and it’s definitely all over me, and it’s probably the fact that my dad is hyperfixated on his new hobby that he doesn’t notice that I have suspicious stains on my shirt.
No one stops me as I slip into the guest room that I’ve taken over and start the shower. The last thing in the world I want is to wash away the scent of Easton, but it’s also kind of gross being crusty like that, and I have to be a functional adult so my son will also learn to do the same.
The water feels good against my aching muscles, and if I hadn’t drained my balls literally dry, I might have even been up for another solo round, coasting on the memory of what it was like to finally taste Easton. To feel him. To have him hold my cock while I humped myself into orgasmic oblivion.
“Fuck, I need to stop thinking about him,” I mutter, then shove my face under the spray.
When I’m fully clean and in fresh clothes, I slide into bed and then grab my phone from where I dropped it with my keys. There’s a single message on the screen that sends my heart into a skitter.
Easton: I hope you don’t regret me.
I type and erase several messages to start.
Me: That will never happen.
Me: I could never.
Me: I’ve wanted you for so long, and that was better than I imagined.
Me: I think I’m probably in love with you.
Me: I wanted to—
Easton: I see typing bubbles. Did I break you?
