Teague’s house is the same as it ever is. Big like him and warm in that Spanish-mission-style way. The gate opens without me having to do anything because I’ve got a transponder in my car. I guess as Teague’s drunk taxi, it makes sense. More sense than just being his friend.

I pull up in front of his door and wait for him to get out, having to consciously unclench my fingers from around my steering wheel. He’d said he wanted to talk, that he missed me, and I believed him. But on the way here, he barely said anything to me. Spent most of his time staring out the window.

Was he feeling guilty for calling me because really what he wanted was a ride home? I don’t understand why he doesn’t take a damn cab. It’s not like he has anything to worry about. Women and not obviously cishet people I understand, because of that whole perfectly valid worried-about-being-assaulted thing, but he’s a cis white dude who most people probably believe is straight, though he’s slept with enough dudes I don’t know why people keep telling themselves that. Teague’s a pretty equal-opportunity lay. Not to mention that he’s enormous. No one in their right mind is going to try anything with him he doesn’t obviously want tried.

Even though he’s not asleep—although this wouldn’t be the first time he’s turned a ride back to his place into a snooze-fest—he’s not getting out. “Dude. We’re here.”

He swings his big, blocky head my way, and there’s something intense about the set of his face. The way his eyes are too big.

“Yeah. Can you, uh, come in?”

“For what?”

Teague’s such a puppy dog, I should watch my tone. It’s not his fault that I’ve got this unrequited thing for him. I shouldn’t snap because I want him to be asking me in so we could…I don’t even know. Teague’s not subtle. If he wanted to fuck, he’d say so. Seduction and subtlety aren’t his jam because they’ve never had to be.

“For… I want to talk to you.”

I barely stop my eyes from rolling, but I do let the words out of my mouth, though I try to dial back the irritation that’s firmly attached to them in my head. “You’ve had half an hour to talk to me, and you’ve hardly said a word.”

“I know.” His whole face scrunches up as he takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to talk to you in the car because it’s not a good place to talk.”

Say no, say no, say no. That’s what my admittedly-in-short-supply survival instincts are saying. But the part of me who’s been Teague’s friend for years says that if it’s something so important that he’s actually worried about talking about it? Then I should suck it up and be as good a friend as he’d be if our positions were reversed. That’s one of the things I love about Teague. He’s never too busy, never has too much on his plate. He always has time for the people who need him and want him and… I don’t know how to be available like that without feeling like a husk of myself, but he’s worth sacrificing some of my energy for. Wearing myself thin, emotionally threadbare.

“Fine.”

I shut off the car and wish there was a key I could wrench out of the ignition, but there’s only a stupid fob in my pocket. At least I can slam the door, which I do before stalking my way to his door. His whole house makes me feel small. Even the door is too big. I guess when you’re six foot seven, you don’t want to feel like a freak in your own house, but feeling like a hobbit isn’t my favorite.

Teague opens the door, and we walk inside. I expect him to head to the kitchen and grab a beer out of the fridge, maybe make a sandwich because he basically eats nonstop. But he only stands there, looking uncertain.

And then all of a sudden, he’s not standing there anymore. He’s standing right in front of me, towering over me, not because he means to, but because he just does, and then his huge-ass hand is on my face. Has Teague ever touched my face? I don’t think so. My arm, my back, my shoulder—hell, he’s even given me a go-get-em-tiger pat on the ass, but my face? It’s intimate, disturbingly so, especially when he leans down, tilts his head, and then he’s kissing me.

I’m not supposed to be doing this. I promised myself I would talk to Christian, and I’m not. Didn’t even give the guy any kind of heads-up or a chance to say no, which is shitty. I know better than that.

My parents, my mom especially, schooled me my whole life on the fact that I’m a big guy and that means I have to be careful with how I act. Be aware that, even though I’m a good kid, my size can be scary. I need to be more in tune with how I’m making people feel because I’m a force of nature.

And now I’ve thrown all that out the window because I couldn’t figure out how to open my mouth and tell one of my best friends on the earth that I want to be more than friends with him. I relied on my big, intimidating body to do it for me. Asshole.

But maybe I haven’t fucked this up entirely, because while his body is stiff with surprise when my lips first meet his, he doesn’t stay that way for long. No, he pretty quickly melts, his head tilting to get a better angle to kiss me back.

It’s…it’s everything I hoped it would be. Warm and firm, and Jesus Christ, I want in his mouth. This is nice, really nice, but I want to be inside him, let our tongues tangle and stroke each other and… I am so hard right now.

And drunk.

Not on liquor from the club, at least not anymore. I mean, I can definitely tell I’ve had something to drink, because I don’t think I could’ve worked up the nerve to do this any other way, but I’m not sloshed or sloppy. I could do math. Not like long division, but I can barely do that when I’m sober.

No, I’m drunk on Christian and on wanting him so badly. It’s dizzying. I feel like I can’t breathe but also like Christian is basically oxygen. Like he’s the only thing I need to be whole.

It’s scary and awesome and overwhelming, and I want to do this forever—no, not kiss him forever, I definitely want more than kissing, because if this is what kissing him is like, what is it going to be like when I touch more than his face? When I get my hands on his lean ribcage, his slim hips? I want to grab his ass and crush him to me, feel if his dick is hard in his pants, and maybe rub off on him a bit because I think my brain might explode if he touched me without some kind of barrier.

Christian must not feel the same way, because his hands are on my ribcage and he’s pushing me away. The part of my brain that hasn’t been flooded with this foreign sensation of aching desire gets its shit together to back up and give him the space he’s asked for.

His dark eyes are glossy, and even from our relatively innocent kiss, his mouth is pink and swollen and his chest is heaving. He looks like he’s going to bolt.

“Christian, I—”

“What the fuck?”

All the excitement and craving that’s been filling me to bursting drains out of me in a hurry. Shit, shit, shit. Christian can be moody, kinda emo, but I’ve always liked that about him. His emotions are really strong and clear. If he’s not happy, he’s not going to act like he is. I get the feeling that he understands on a visceral level what it’s like to long for things and to hurt when he doesn’t get them. Not that I want him to feel shitty, but it’s helpful sometimes when we’re putting together songs that he can translate those feelings into music. A minor chord here, a sick slow roll of kick drum there, and all of a sudden everyone’s caught it. He’s infected them—however briefly—with the way he wants them to feel. Maybe the way he feels.

Right now he is pissed. Hands in fists by his side and he’s looking up at me through drawn-tight dark brows, cheeks flushed.

“I—I’m sorry.”

I can’t think of anything else to say, even though he deserves so much more than that.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Teague. It’s unfortunate you couldn’t find someone to go home with at that club, or maybe all your usual booty calls were busy. It’s a downright shame that you were unable to find someone to fuck, but I’m not some fill-in for what you really want.”

He has got all of this so, so wrong. But I haven’t given him any reason to get it right. I need to before he walks out the door and doesn’t speak to me again. What I want to do is close the gap between us, wrap my hands around his biceps, and make him stand there while I explain, but that is the last thing on earth I should do. It’s not fair.

Instead, I plant my feet, close my eyes, and put my hands to my sides. Count to five. It was ten when I was a kid, but I’ve got a better hold on myself now and also Christian’s quick. I give him ten, and he’ll be peeling out of my driveway, so five will have to do. As things are, I hear the door creak open because it’s so heavy he has a hard time opening it. I could at least oil the damn thing.

“Please don’t go. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t ask you here because I was lonely and I couldn’t get laid. I swear. I’m not trying to be a dick about it, but I totally got hit on half-a-dozen times tonight. I could be fucking someone right now, and I’m not. I’m here with you.”

I take the chance and open my eyes. He’s still here. In the doorframe with his head bowed and facing away from me, but here nonetheless, so I keep going, trying to manage all the emotions that are buzzing around my body like smoke-angered bees. Sex, desire, honest-to-god craving is making me into a crazy person.

“I really did want to talk to you, and I really do miss you. I…I’m having a hard time. That’s no excuse for what I did, and I would understand if you wanted to leave because I made you uncomfortable. I’m really, really sorry, and it will never happen again. I swear.”

My stomach churns at the thought, but I would give up anything, repeatedly, to make things right with Christian so we can still be friends. If that’s what he wants.

I stand there, wanting to go to him, wanting to touch him, wanting to hear his voice, wanting so much I’m almost vibrating with it. Please talk to me, please.

A few vomitously long seconds later, he turns around. Doesn’t take a step into the house, but doesn’t back away slowly either.

“You swear you’re not playing some kind of sick joke? Because I gotta tell you, it’s really not funny.”

“A joke? No.” What the hell kind of joke would that be? Why would anyone kiss Christian as a joke? He’s right that kissing him isn’t funny—it’s fucking everything, and I hate the idea that he could even think that, especially about me. I know I’m not the smartest guy, but I try to be careful of people’s feelings.

“Then you have to explain this to me, because I really don’t get it.”

“I—” Whoo, boy. “Can you come in and shut the door? We can sit in the living room and I swear I’ll stay on the other side of the room, but it’s nerve-racking to have the…”

Ugh. Never have I worried about anything I’ve done getting out. If anything, I’ve made an effort not to be secretive or private. Teague Martell is an open book, except for this chapter that I have kept so tightly closed literally no one knows the truth. Hell, I don’t totally understand it myself. I thought I did, and now Christian’s gone and thrown a monkey wrench in my inner workings. Yeah, books and wrenches, okay? I’m not the song writer.

“…the door open.” Well, that was a lackluster ending to that ask.

Christian crosses his arms, but tips up his chin in a gesture toward my living room. “Fine. Go.”

I want to offer to help him with the door, but I don’t think that’d make him feel any better, so I listen to the thing creak closed as he puts his weight into it. I toe off my shoes and shuffle into the living room, feeling like a massive shitbag because I made my friend feel used and he’s worried I might do it again. I wouldn’t. I’m big enough to get whatever I want, but I am uncomfortably aware of that so I try never to even give the appearance that I’d use my size against someone.

Tossing a few pillows on the floor, I take a seat at one end of my sectional. Christian picks his way across the rug and around the big-ass coffee table to sit not quite at the opposite end but not all that much closer. Probably closer than I deserve.

I should start, because I’m the one who fucked up, but he beats me to the punch. “You said you’re having a hard time. And if I’m being honest, I noticed something was going on with you, but I figured you would talk to me about it if you wanted to. You always do. And you know you always can, right?”

His earnestness makes gratitude well in my chest. “Yeah, I do know that.”

“So what’s going on that’s so hard that you couldn’t tell me about it?”

I have the comfiest couch in the whole world. It’s huge, covered in well-worn leather that warms with the heat of your body almost instantly, and it’s really freaking great. Everyone loves my couch. Which is why it’s weird that Christian’s perched on the edge like it’s one of those rickety-ass antique-looking things I don’t dare sit in because they made people smaller back in the day.

“It’s…I…” How do you explain this to someone? If there are words for what I’m like because I’m not the only one, I don’t know them. I’ll do the best I can though, because he deserves that much. “You know how I fuck a lot of people?”

He snort-laughs, and it’s not quite the reaction I was looking for, but it’ll do, especially since his posture bends a little.

“Uh, yes, I know. You get around. Much like the rest of us.”

True. We’re a bunch of libertines. Or were. Now that Zane has Rowan, I haven’t seen him look at anyone else, never mind do anything about it. “Yeah. So I have a lot of sex, but I don’t…”

His raised brows seem to ask, “You don’t what?”

I’m not sure why I’m embarrassed about this. I don’t honestly think there’s anything wrong with me. People are put together all kinds of different ways, and this happens to be mine. But I know, I know that people would think this is really freaking weird. That’s why I’ve learned to posture the way I do and keep Terra Boy a secret.

I can take the good-natured ribbing about being enormous, mostly. But this isn’t that. It’s not even about being not that bright. It’s a sex thing, and not only does that automatically make it juicier fodder, but it makes it something quiet, private, something that I can and have chosen to hide, and I’m about to hand it over to him and hope he doesn’t point and laugh. But this isn’t Nicky. And it’s not Benji or Zane who are more chill, but still fundamentally dudes. It’s Christian, and I can trust him.

“I’ve never really wanted to?” I feel my eye squint, and I wait for Christian to pull a face. He doesn’t. He does look like he’s mulling it over, which is fine. More than fine. Thoughtful Christian, I like. It means he’s taking me seriously, trying to understand what I mean.

“Never? I’m not judging—I’m trying to understand.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Then why’d you do it?” He’s not criticizing me or implying that I’m stupid; he genuinely wants to know. I’ve known him for long enough to know the difference.

“Because that’s what I was supposed to do? I’m a rock star, right? Rock stars have lots of sex, and they party. I mean, play music too, I guess.”

The corners of his mouth turn up, and I want to kiss them, right at the edges. A smile from Christian is worth a guffaw from anyone else.

“So are you ace?”

Ace? How the hell am I supposed to know? I don’t even know what that means. Christian’s eyebrows kick up because he probably expects that I’ve tried to figure this out, but I haven’t. I mean, thought about it a lot, but haven’t even been brave enough to type it into my fucking computer.

“Ace, like asexual? It means you don’t have interest in sex.”

Yeah, totally should’ve talked to Christian about this. He knows everything, but not in a showy dickwad kinda way. I probably would have come to him if the person I’d suddenly started having pants-feelings for was anyone but him.

“Not exactly?” If I could sound less like I’m asking questions constantly, that would be awesome. But I kind of am. I’m asking him to understand, to believe me, to accept me. It’s like taking your pants off and standing on a street corner with a sign around your neck that says, Please Kick Me in the Balls. Aside from a few people with a really specific kink, who would want to do that? It makes me feel really vulnerable, and that’s not a feeling I’m used to dealing with. All kinds of firsts for me, and I could really use a break. This shit is exhausting. “But for the most part, no.”

“So what are the exceptions?”

“Exceptions?”

“Yeah, if you’ve had interest in sex in the past, do you know what made those people different?”

For fuck’s sake, could he have asked me anything else? Which is going to be less embarrassing—telling him about my massive crush and lifelong torch for Terra Boy or the fact that he’s basically the second (and only real) person who’s ever made me want to ride that ride? So I stall. “Why? Is there a word for it, depending on what I say? Like I’m a ginger-osexual if I only get turned on by redheads or something?”

He cracks a smile, but still doesn’t laugh. “More like if you have to have an emotional attachment to someone before you want to bang them, then you might be demisexual.”

“I thought that meant you only had a thing for chicks named Demi.” Yes, being uncomfortable makes me crack stupider jokes than usual. But I kinda like that word: demisexual. Maybe fits with how I am. Means there are enough people who sound like me that there’s a word for it. There’s a measure of relief in that.

“And you were having a hard time because…?” Here’s my opening. My chance to tell him why. There’s a wariness on his face, though, and it makes me cautious, too. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a guy. Like, Hey, I almost never want to actually have sex, but I want to have sex with you.

I don’t want Christian to feel any sense of obligation at all, ever. But I also would really, really like to kiss him again and hopefully do more than that. So. Maybe a hypothetical, because those always work out super well. But I’m feeling gun-shy. Before, if I hit on someone and they refused, it wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes even a load off. If Christian rejected me, though? That would hurt. A lot. And I would’ve jeopardized our friendship with nothing to show for it. Plus, how do I know this will ever happen again? Maybe Christian is literally the love of my life, but he has no interest in me like that. That’s cool. That only makes me want to ritually disembowel myself.

“Because I’ve gone basically my whole life without wanting to have sex with someone, and now I want to. It’s stressful.”

Christian blinks. “I can imagine.”

You really can’t.

“Does this… Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? This wasn’t what I was expecting to do tonight, and I’m trying to catch up as best I can, so give me a little leeway if I fuck this up, yeah?”

I nod because he’s given me miles and miles of tolerance and forgiveness and support over the years, so the least I can do is give him an inch in return. And the likelihood that he’s going to say something to actually make me upset is small. What with the whole empathetic thing he has going on.

“Does this have anything to do with you kissing me?”