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Which means the answer is nothing. Nothing happens after Thanksgiving. He goes back to being Foster Crue of Hall of Fame, and I go back to being the events coordinator he sees a few times a year. This whole thing gets folded up and put back in the drawer until the next time our schedules line up.

Fox lives in California. His life, when he’s not touring, is in California. Even with the band on hiatus, whatever he does next is going to be there, or in a studio in Nashville or LA or London. Not here. Not in a tiny apartment above Main Street in a town with three thousand people and a Christmas market that requires the mayor’s personal sign-off.

I know all this.

I’ve known all this for ten years.

The problem is that knowing something is not the same as being ready for it to happen.

I roll onto my side toward him and prop my head on my hand. He doesn’t stir. After three rounds of sex before finally falling asleep at three a.m., I’m not surprised.

I lean in. Kiss his shoulder. Right where his neck meets the top of his back.

He makes a small sound, not quite awake yet. His skin is warm and smells like sleep, me, and the soap he’s been using.

I kiss lower. Along his shoulder and down his spine. He shifts under my mouth, and I hear him hum, low and satisfied, like he doesn’t mind being woken up this way.

“Finn…”

His voice is thick with sleep.

“Morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Early.”

I keep going, now toward the small dip at the base of his spine. I nudge him gently onto his back, and he goes willingly, one arm folding under his head. His eyes are half-open now, watching me with an expression so soft I want to take a photo of him and hang it in my bedroom.

I take my time, trailing my mouth down his stomach, across his hip bone, along the crease of his thigh. He’s already hard, and when I finally take him in my mouth, his hand slides into my hair.

“Fuck.”

I hum around him, and he makes another sound as he tightens his fingers in my hair.

I don’t drag it out. Not this morning. This morning is for the last part of the bubble before it pops, and I want to give him something to think about all day when he’s sitting at the same dinner table as my family, pretending he hasn’t been in my bed for the last two weeks.

I take him deeper, and when his hips twitch up, I let them. His breath is coming in short bursts now, and he’s saying my name, over and over. When he comes, it’s with a groan that I swallow down along with him, both of my hands flat against his hips to keep him steady.

When I pull off, his chest is heaving.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Griffin.”

I crawl up his body and lie down against his side, my head on his chest.

“Morning.”

“You’re deadly.”

“I think you’ve known that for a while, and still, you keep coming back for more.”

He laughs, low and lazy. His hand comes down and finds my cock, still hard against his hip. He wraps his fingers around my length and starts stroking, slow and deliberate, the way I like when I’m already primed.

“Fox—”

“Fair’s fair.”

I bury my face in his shoulder. His hand is warm and confident, and he knows exactly what he’s doing because he’s been doing it for a decade. He gets his other hand into my hair, turns my face up to his, and kisses me.