He took the quickest shower of his life. The water hardly had time to get warm before Miguel had soaped himself up, scrubbed, and rinsed off. Back in the bedroom, he found the bag with his clothes and dragged on a pair of jeans and one of ten identical white T-shirts. He looked good in white.

The voices floating in from the living room sounded oddly familiar, but Buck and Joey weren’t supposed to be back yet. Right? Though now that he stopped to think as his brain recovered from sex, he recalled Nate telling him they were on their way home.

Buttoning his fly, he made his way to the living room. He hadn’t been wrong. What the hell were Buck and Joey doing in Nate’s house?

“Guys?” Miguel greeted his friends and old housemates.

Buck leapt to his feet, strode over to Miguel, and dragged him into a bear hug. Miguel melted. He couldn’t help it, a hug from Buck was like… the best thing in the world, next to sex. Buck hugged with his entire body. There was nothing sexual about it. He gave strength, and Miguel wasn’t too embarrassed to take it.

“Why didn’t you call us?” Buck whispered into his ear.

Miguel leaned away from his friend. “Honeymoon? Really? You think I would call you away from that?”

“I told you that was what he would say,” Joey piped up. He and Nate were awkwardly sitting together on the couch looking out onto Nate’s backyard.

“I’m going to take a shower.” Nate stood and pointed at Miguel. “Be here when I get out.”

Miguel felt a shiver run up his spine. “Yessir.”

“Really?” Joey came and stood next to his husband. “Now you’re following directions?”

Miguel waggled his eyebrows. He loved winding Joey up, and it was so damn easy. “In the right way, with the right equipment, following directions can be extremely satisfying.”

“Is he even gay?”

“Joey,” Miguel sighed, because they’d had this discussion before, “you are way too hung up on labels. And why are we talking about my sex life? Why are you two here? How’d you know I’d be here?” He led them over to the dining table. “Sit down. I’ll see if I can find something to drink.”

Buck followed him, blocking his way into the kitchen. Jesus, if Miguel could follow directions, couldn’t Buck?

“You moved out.” Statement, question… Miguel wasn’t sure.

“Yes?” He moved around his friend to peer into the fridge, where Nate had a healthy selection of sparkling waters, possibly iced tea in a weird glass jug, and a half-empty container of chocolate milk. What did the man eat? He grabbed a water. “Look, it was time. Okay? You didn’t need to come home and find the third wheel still living in your house. You’re married now.”

The hurt expression on Buck’s face was more than Miguel could process. Maybe he’d underestimated the effect this would have on his friend? Buck grabbed him again, engulfing Miguel in a second huge hug, squeezing until Miguel couldn’t take a breath. The fridge door thumped shut.

“You’re not just my friend, you’re my family. My brother.” Buck shuddered against Miguel. Damn. Buck was not a talky guy; this was huge for him.

“Okay, family, I get it. I’m sorry I moved out.”

“Move back.”

“I’ve got dibs.” Nate’s voice cut over their conversation. “You promised you’d be here.”

Miguel sputtered. “Both of you are certifiable. Jesus, Nate, you’ve known me for a week.”

“We actually met at a Christmas party last year.”

Miguel narrowed his eyes, trying to place a redheaded, galaxy-covered, cop-faced man. The punch had been pretty strong, and Miguel had been testing it for Micah. He seemed to remember eggnog and hot toddies, too. Micah’s party had been a combination family reunion, cop show, and… well, from what he remembered, it had been a lot of fun. There’d eventually been dancing.

“I didn’t stay. You were… busy.”

“Busy flirting with everyone at the party, including my mom,” Joey added from the dining area.

“Helping her keep her hand in.” Miguel laughed at Joey’s glower. “Annnyway, why did you two come over here tonight? I would have seen you tomorrow.”

Finally, with Nate’s help, Miguel got them to leave by promising Buck he would stop by the house tomorrow. He would have done it anyway.

“Take the day off tomorrow, you earned it. Dom and Kevin have already made calls. We’ve put everything off a day or two. If customers don’t like it, they can take their business to that jerk Leonard Bass.” Buck and Miguel both knew that most of his clients would wait rather than take their business to Leonard’s. Anyone who would had already done so when Miguel started working at Swanfeldt’s three years ago.

After Buck and Joey departed, Nate and Miguel spent what was left of the evening trying to figure out why Miguel’s wallet had been at the scene of a crime. Nate got out a yellow legal pad so he could take notes.

“Oh, can we play cops and robbers?”

“Only if you are a very good boy. Or very naughty.” Nate was catching on fast.

 

By the time they tumbled back into Nate’s bed, too tired to do anything but kiss, nothing had been solved.

Two weeks of poor sleep and the stress of being in charge of Swanfeldt’s caught up with Miguel. He didn’t remember shutting his eyes. He was so tired he didn’t dream—or if he did, he didn’t remember. When he woke, the spot next to him was empty but the aroma of coffee wafted from down the hallway. The clock on the nightstand claimed it was after ten a.m. Had he really slept for over ten hours?

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, then running a hand through his hair, which he knew from experience would do no good, Miguel lurched out to the kitchen. Nate was sitting at the dining table hunched over a cup of coffee and his legal pad.

“Hey,” Miguel rasped. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Hey, morning.”

Nate looked up at him and beamed. Miguel had to quell the urge to look behind him to see who Nate was smiling at. It was hard for him to believe the smile was aimed at him. Men and women often smiled at him, but not without reserve. Not with their entire heart visible where anyone could see. Nate’s smile came with a lot of responsibility.

Miguel wanted to be worthy of it.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

“How long have you been up?”

“A couple hours.”

“Sheesh.”

“Want to go grab some breakfast? There’s not much here.”

“Understatement of the year. What do you live on?”

“I eat out,” Nate muttered. “A lot.” Tossing his pen down with a smack, he stood up from the table. “Get dressed, we’ll go see what the line at the Oyster House looks like.”

Good lord, Miguel could get used to bossy Nate. Maybe it had always been there and Miguel hadn’t recognized it for what it was, but Nate strong, demanding, turned his crank. He wouldn’t want it all the time, but Nate seemed well on his way to figuring out that Miguel didn’t always want to be in charge. That he often preferred the safety of handing someone else the wheel so Miguel could free-fall.

He got dressed.

Nate had a flat tire.

Miguel got to show off by changing it in under ten minutes. “Breakfast? Then we can stop by the shop and really fix it.”

Breakfast was good. Fancy in a way only the Pacific Northwest could be. Which meant that the menu was pricey, the food was all organic, and most guests were dressed in shorts and plaid shirts. Nate, Mr. East Coast, was the sharpest dressed on the premises, wearing khaki slacks and an off-white linen button-down under a casual summer-weight jacket. Miguel enjoyed the glances other guests gave him. They had to wait for a table, but even if the food had been terrible—which it wasn’t—the view across the Skagit flats was stunning.

 

There was a dead animal on Nate’s front steps.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Miguel turned away from the remains, swallowing to keep his breakfast down. They’d come to the front door because Nate had parked on the street instead of under the carport.

Nate was immediately on his phone. Apparently leaving dead animals at the homes of federal agents was a bad plan. His demeanor changed instantaneously, from relaxed to on-point. Kneeling down for a closer look at the remains, Nate took a picture with his phone and sent it to his superior. “Yeah,” he said into the phone. “Looks like a cat, could be road kill, hard to say.” A pause. “I don’t know. Maybe?” Miguel listened with one ear while he stared up and down the street, studying the houses, driveways, hidden access points. Wondering if the neighbors had seen anything.

Nate’s stoop was quite visible from the street. There was a small dwarf cherry tree in front of it, but it wasn’t big enough or thick enough to truly block anyone’s view. And it was Sunday; there had to have been someone out.

“I’m thinking last night or early this morning. Yeah, Buck and Joey Swanfeldt came by; I’m pretty sure they would have said if there’d been a dead animal on my porch. Okay, boss. Sure, boss.” Nate hung up. “That’s gross,” he stated, staring at the remains.

“Is that your professional opinion, Fed?”

“Yep. I hope it was hit by a car or something. Not that that’s—I just mean, you have to be pretty sick to kill an animal on purpose.”

“Why would anyone do something like this?” Miguel wondered. He’d never had pets, but he couldn’t imagine killing an animal, ever.

“Usually to leave a message. To scare someone: an ‘It could’ve been you’ sort of message.” Nate ran his hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. “Might have something to do with the case I’m sort of working on. I’m going to have to go in to the office.” Nate stepped over the carcass to unlock his front door. He turned down the short hallway toward the smaller bedrooms.

Miguel followed and found Nate had turned one small bedroom into a home office. Nate’s desk and chair were arranged under a small window opposite several bookshelves stuffed with both fiction and nonfiction. Which was good, because no matter how hot Nate was, if Miguel hadn’t found any books in his house he would’ve had to keep it a one-night stand. One-plus-night stand.

He froze in place at the idea of permanence, a concept that had never applied to his life in the past. As if he could read Miguel’s mind, Nate looked up from shuffling through his desk and commented, “I’m thinking of taking down the wall between these rooms,” he gestured, “and making one large study-guest area. We could add another desk and a couple more bookshelves. I saw the stack of books at your place.”

Miguel sputtered. Was Nate really offering to make a place for him in his home? Did he know what he was saying? Miguel was willing to admit, in the privacy of his own head, that it was like being gifted everything his secret heart desired. Which was terrifying, because the last time the secrets his heart longed for had been presented to him it had been a lie. When the dust settled, Miguel had been left with nothing; less even than he had started with. He could feel his heart straining to reach out and accept what was being given. He wanted it. He wanted it so badly he could almost feel it.

“Nate, the things you say.”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.” Nate’s eyes bored into his, and Miguel was the one who looked away. “The only solution is to prove it to you. If I have to prove it over and over again before you believe, if that’s what it takes? That is what I will do.”

“Jesus.” What Miguel wanted was to throw himself into this man’s arms; instead, he tried to talk some sense into him. “You don’t know me. I could be a creep, a user, a grifter who will ruin your life.”

“Practically, I know that’s not true. I imagine Klay has already run you through his database. You’re too close to his personal circle and his boyfriend.” Nate ticked a finger. “Impractically, I don’t feel it. I understand, though. You’ve been burned, badly. It will take you a little while to understand I’m for real. I’ll wait.”

Miguel had to shut his eyes. Nate was offering everything, and it felt too rich. He imagined that he felt like a man too long in the desert, so parched that one sip of water wouldn’t be enough, yet more would be dangerous. It was also ironically hilarious that Miguel was usually one to jump headfirst into things, and now that he was trying to be reasonable, Nate was presenting him the moon on a platter.

He stared at the hardwood floor trying to think of a response, and feet encased in boring black dress socks came into view. Nate lifted Miguel’s chin, and warm lips covered his with a kiss—a gentle promise, nothing more.

“I’m sorry,” Miguel whispered, not certain what he was apologizing for.

 

Nate cleaned up the remains on his porch, wrapping them in a plastic bag before putting them in his car and hosing down the stoop. Miguel tried offering to help but was glad Nate shooed him away. Then he was gone a few minutes later, headed to the not-so-secret FBI lair in Skagit, leaving Miguel at loose ends. “Lock up behind me. If you have to leave, there’s a spare key under the silverware tray and the alarm code is 4174.” He kissed Miguel hard on the lips again, then was gone.

The house felt empty without him. Miguel wandered around at loose ends for a while, opening and closing a few kitchen cupboards—there was a distinct lack of anything to cook, only canned soup—before wandering out into the backyard, which he was not surprised to see was a little out of control.

Finally he plucked a book from Nate’s shelves, an old copy of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, and settled into one of Nate’s couches, alternating between reading and watching the birds and squirrels fight over the hanging feeder. The sun started to go down, and much later, he woke with a start when the outdoor lights came on in the backyard, shining into his eyes. Something had set the sensors off; a small animal, maybe?

He stumbled back to Nate’s bedroom and wrapped himself in the comforter and the scent of them together embedded in the sheets. Laundry needed to be done, but not at 2 a.m. Nate still hadn’t returned when Miguel woke hours later and the sun was shining brightly. He supposed that was what life was like when you hung out with a federal agent.