To: Dylan Mitchell

From: Gabe Foster

 

An hour later we climb the narrow stairs and he huffs indignantly. “I cannot believe that you told your mother those things. I mean the story about the conference, you’ve wildly exaggerated that.”

I turn and wink cheekily at him. “I don’t think so, and don’t worry I haven’t told her any of the more recent stories.”

Heat crosses his face. “Fuck, I wish we were on our own at this moment.”

“Why?” I whisper, turning and blocking his way up. I’m a stair above him, and we’re now the same height. I stare into his stormy-grey eyes. “What would you do?”

He stares at me intently, and then reaches up and runs his long fingers across my lips. “I’d put these to good use.”

I shiver and then turn around. “Hold that thought.”

He follows me. “What do you mean? I am not doing anything in your childhood home, Dylan.”

“Pshaw,” I shrug, getting to the top of the stairs. “My mum and dad’s room is down that way in the old part of the house, overlooking the back. My brother’s room is also at the back. My other brother and sister don’t live at home.” I grab the door handle to my room and look at him cockily. “So we’re all alone, Mr Foster. Get ready to make some noise.” I fling the door open with a flourish and stand back to let him go through.

He shakes his head and pauses when he’s inside the room, looking around with a lively curiosity. The room is bathed in sunshine, which lays lazy stripes over the white walls and sand-coloured carpet. “Was this your room when you were little?” he asks, avid curiosity and something sad vying for prominence in his eyes.

I look around at the king-sized bed with the navy and red, handmade quilt, and the one navy-painted wall on which is hung one of my mum’s huge, six foot paintings. It shows me and my brothers playing in an old boat we’d had. She went through a stage of painting with very light colours, and the whole picture has a whitewashed, ethereal air. “It was, but they redecorated when I left home and took down all my posters of Brad Pitt.”

He pouts mockingly. “Oh dear, what a tragedy.”

I nod. “I know. They were from ‘Troy’ when he had long hair, but I really feel that his seminal work was ‘Fight Club’.”

He smiles. “I’m noting your use of the word seminal.”

I laugh. “You were meant to.”

He puts his bag down and wanders over to look out of the window, stooping slightly as the ceilings in the farmhouse are low. “I can’t imagine growing up somewhere like this,” he says almost wistfully, and I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. It’s for comfort, but when he stiffens slightly I cover it by leaning over and looking out of the window.

“It was a lovely childhood. We didn’t have much money when I was little, but we had each other.” I trail off, horrified because that was incredibly tactless, but he smiles.

“Don’t be embarrassed about having a normal childhood, Dylan. You’re not rubbing my nose in it. You’re always so refreshingly forthright and honest, and I like it, so don’t change.” He shrugs. “I actually like hearing about people’s childhoods. It’s nice to listen to, a bit like overhearing a really lovely secret.”

He instantly looks both embarrassed and aggrieved, as if I’ve made him say such a whimsical thing. It’s a very endearing look on him, but a sudden scratching and snuffling at the door breaks our moment and he looks up startled. I smile. “Do you like dogs?”

To my amazement, a huge smile spreads over his face. “You have dogs?”

I nod, going over to the door. “Yes, three. One’s my dad’s working dog, so she’s out with him at the moment. The other two are house dogs.” I fling open the doors, letting in the two Border Terriers who were waiting outside. They bound in with their little, cross, old man faces, and immediately make a beeline for Gabe, who I’m amazed to see is crouching on the floor to welcome them. He laughs when they reach him and stretches out his hands, stroking and petting them as the shameless attention seekers curl in on him with their tails wagging furiously.

He has the biggest smile on his face that I’ve ever seen. It makes his tanned features glow, and I swallow hard. I’ve never seen him look truly happy and engaged until now, and I feel something snap and settle in me. It’s the last piece of my heart, falling for him without any input from me at all. How could I really resist him? I ask myself wryly. Who could resist the damaged, beautiful man that he is?

Unaware of my turmoil, he laughs and looks up at me. “What are their names?”

I struggle to get my mind back into gear, and then grimace. “Cersei and Jaime.”

He looks puzzled. “Like the Game of Thrones characters?”

I nod slowly. “Yes.”

I hope he’s going to let it go, but he stares at me. “Why?”

“Er, because they’re brother and sister,” I say quickly, and then finish lamely, “And they like licking each other a lot.”

Silence reigns for a second. Then he gives the biggest laugh I’ve ever heard from him. “That’s fucking classic. Who thought of that?”

I smile. “My mum. I’ll warn you that she also named the cat downstairs.” He looks at me querying. “Katie Price, because she likes sunning herself.”

“Your mum’s brilliant. Do you have any other pets?”

“My dad’s dog. We used to have a couple of hamsters that were called Steve and McQueen because they kept escaping. But they performed one final escape which proved fatal when they got in an old biscuit tin and couldn’t get out.”

He’s looking at me in fascination, and it makes me unexpectedly shy. “How about a walk?” I ask brightly. “I’ll show you over the farm.”

“Can we take the dogs?” he asks eagerly, and I smile.

“Of course. I’ll even let you pick up the dog poo.”

“Thank you,” he mutters.

We grab our coats from downstairs, his an elegant, navy, Burberry pea coat, mine an old, green parka of my dad’s, and shouting a goodbye to my mum, we set out. I show him over the farm, letting him poke his head into sheds and barns.

He shows a keen fascination with the barn that houses my mum’s studio and where she gives her workshops, but he refuses to go in, saying an artist’s space is very private. I’d argue about that because my siblings and I have always run freely in and out of the studio, but I have a keen sense he’s right. Apart from that he’s largely silent, until we cut down onto the footpath that leads down to the village.

The footpath is lined on both sides by trees, and they lean over it, making a tunnel. The bare branches make it look like we’re entering the rib cage of a huge animal. The dogs are running ahead of us, their little bums and legs bobbing up and down as they snuffle enthusiastically into hedges and grass, and he laughs in delight then looks at me.

“So, I think you’d better prepare me. Tell me who’s who in your family.”

I smile at him. “Well, you’ve met my mum. You’ll meet my dad, Tom, later. He’s quiet compared to my mum, but he’s got a very dry sense of humour.”

“Your brothers and sisters?” he asks, bending down to get the stick Cersei is holding, and throwing it for her to fetch.

“Simon’s the eldest. He’s in America at the moment. He runs the farm with dad, and he’s studying agriculture over there as part of an exchange group. Then there’s my sister, Leah. She and her husband and their two-year-old twin boys are in Thailand for Christmas. Her husband, Will, is a professor at Exeter University, and they met while at university together. She studied hospitality and worked in some of the best hotels in the world. She gave it up to come back and have kids with him, and now she runs the holiday cottages on the farm. They’re doing really well and make a lot of money. The three cottages are on the edge of our land. I’ll show you them later.”

He nods. “Any more? It’s like the fucking Waltons.”

I laugh. “The Waltons, if it was set in Devon with a great deal more bad behaviour and cursing, and that’s just my mum.”

He laughs, and I stare surreptitiously at the stranger in front of me. There’s no sign of the perfectionist boss now. He looks rumpled, his cheeks red from the cold and his eyes bright. His hair is a windswept mess, and the bright red scarf he threw on earlier compliments his olive skin. However, it’s his open, almost happy expression that really marks the difference. He shoots a look at me. “I love your mum. Are you sure they don’t mind me being here?”

I come to a stop and grab his arm. “I would never have asked you if they did. I would never put you in such a vulnerable position, Gabe. You must trust me on this.”

He stares hard at me. His eyes are a stormy grey, and shadows from the branches overhead send light and dark over his face. “I do trust you,” he says slowly. “There are very few people that I trust, but you’re one of them.” I really want to know who the others are, but he shakes his head. “Go on, you were telling me about the rest of your family.”

I sigh at the lost moment. “Well, there’s me, and lastly the baby, Ben, who’s at Edinburgh University studying to be a vet. You’ll meet him tonight when he gets back, and God help you.”

He laughs. “So he’ll come back here eventually too, I presume?”

I nod. “Lots of work around here, and he did his apprenticeship year with our local vet.”

“What about you? Everyone else is home. Why not you?”

I’m startled. “I like London. I’ve no real desire at the moment to be back here. I like the fact that there’s something going on all the time in London. There’s always a museum or a gallery to go to, and I love the history that’s around every corner.” I look at the path ahead, and the spindly branches outlined starkly against the grey sky. Nearby, a robin sets down on a bush, its red breast almost startling in this monochrome, winter world. “I like coming back for weekends and recharging, but not all the time. What about you? Do you fancy being a weekend, country squire?”

He shakes his head. “I’m the same as you, but it is beautiful here. I can see the appeal.”

By unspoken agreement, we turn back for home. When we let ourselves in, I almost trip over the large suitcase and the bin bag which is spewing what must be dirty washing everywhere. “Oh lovely,” I say, kicking a pair of boxers under the telephone table.

The dogs prance ahead into the kitchen with excited whimpers, and there’s a brief commotion and then a huge shout. “Dill Weed, is that you?”

I wince. “That’s my brother’s nickname for me,” I mutter at Gabe, who has a wide grin on his face. “Use it at your peril.”

Ben shouts again, and then appears at the kitchen door. I smile at him as he speeds towards me and hugs me. “Jesus Christ, Ben, have you grown again?”

He laughs and straightens to his six foot four height. His dark hair is pulled back in a bun, and he’s grown a beard. “Probably,” he smiles cheekily. “It’s my nonstop diet of sex.”

I groan. “Too much information.”

“Well, Dill Weed, too many women, too little time. The Benster has to recharge sometimes.”

“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?” I ask faintly. “Because that’s fairly disturbing.”

Gabe laughs, and Ben turns to him. “I’ve just been hearing about you from my mum,” he says, putting out a hand for him to shake.

“Oh dear, I hope it was complimentary.”

Ben smiles. “Of course. Made better by the fact that you appreciate her art, unlike the Neanderthals she normally lives with.”

I groan, used to this from my mum, and look up as the door opens and my dad’s collie dog darts in. “Hi baby,” I croon, bending down to give her a pat. She’s cold from the air outside, and lets me cuddle her for a second.

“Is this your dad’s dog?” Gabe asks. “I can’t wait to hear her name.”

Ben laughs. “Oh, you’ve heard the others. Believe me, they’re the tip of the iceberg. We’ve had eccentric pet names for as long as I can remember.”

“This one’s Lizzie,” I murmur, smiling up at him, and for a second his gaze seems caught on my smile. Then he focuses.

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He stares at the dog, whose black and white patches over her eyes give her an adorably pie-eyed look. He looks at me stroking her neck, and then smiles. “Elizabeth 1.”

“How did you guess?”

Gabe laughs. “Because of her ruff.”

“Well done.” A deep voice with a Devon burr to it comes from the door, and Gabe straightens as my dad comes in. My dad is a big man. Ben gets his height and looks from him, as he stands at six foot five, with grey, flecked black hair and a grizzled beard. He looks very intimidating, but actually he’s a total cliché, being a gentle giant.

Gabe turns seriously to him. “Hello, Mr Mitchell. I’m Gabe Foster. I hope I’m not intruding on your Christmas.”

He gives his slow, sweet smile, and I see Gabe instantly relax for some reason. It’s puzzling, because it normally takes ages for people to realise how gentle he is.

“Not at all,” my dad says.” Any friend of Dylan is welcome here at any time. Now Rebecca rang me to say that dinner was ready, so how about we go and eat, and you can tell me hideously embarrassing stories about Dylan?”

“That would certainly be my pleasure,” drawls Gabe, and I glare at him.

“Keep them clean,” I hiss at him, as Ben and my dad disappear into the kitchen.

He arches one eyebrow, looking devilish. “What on earth do you think that I’d tell him?” He lowers his voice. “How about the fact that you love it when I come on you and lick it off?”

“Fucking hell,” I hiss. “Thanks for the pre-family dinner boner, you twat.” He laughs, and I look at him curiously. “What made you relax so suddenly around my dad? It usually takes a while. Some of my uni mates were scared shitless of him.”

He smiles almost nervously. “He has your smile.”

“Sorry?”

“Ben may look like him, and you look like your mum, but you have your dad’s smile. It’s always made me relax.”

He brushes past me towards the kitchen, and it might be the light, but I could swear he’s blushing.

***

Dinner is a raucous affair. Huge candles decorate the table, and my dad pours red wine as if it’s going out of fashion. Mum has made a big pot of beef bourguignon that smells heavenly, with shallots bobbing in the rich gravy like tiny pearls. We mop it up with homemade bread and butter from our farm. For dessert, she produces with a flourish a large custard tart, which gleams a rich, butter yellow in the candlelight.

Gabe leans back and rubs his flat stomach. “That was an absolutely fantastic meal. Thank you, Rebecca.”

She raises her wine glass. “No, thank you for the wonderful heart-warming stories you’ve shared about my son.” My dad laughs heartily, and I shoot a glare at Gabe who has overshared evilly.

My dad stretches. “Well, it’s bed for me. But just one more please, Gabe.”

Gabe smiles wickedly. “Once, Dylan got his tie caught in the small, portable shredder at work and actually shredded half of it before he realised. Then he was trapped because the reverse button didn’t work, so he had to stay there for a couple of hours until I came back and was able to cut him out.”

“Oh my God,” I groan as my mum and dad and Ben let loose massive laughs like the traitors they are. “It wasn’t funny,” I say sourly. “It was one of my best ties, and I had a bit of a blood pressure headache afterwards.”

Gabe joins in laughing, and I shoot him the finger.

My mum stands up. “Time for bed, and thank you for tonight, Gabe. As a gesture of gratitude for the years’ worth of piss taking that you’ve given us, I’d like to leave you with one little gift in return.”

“Oh, now what, Mum?” I shout.

She carries on obliviously. “Dylan came in drunk one night when he was nineteen. He’d forgotten his key and got stuck trying to come through the dog flap. He was there all night, and when we came down in the morning he was still there, drunkenly singing to himself.”

Ben snorts out a huge laugh. “Oh my God, that was his ‘I’m so Sad’ song.”

“Fucking hell you lot,” I grouse as Gabe bursts out laughing, and I stand up to hug my parents. They leave us, and Ben quickly stands up.

“Thank God they’ve gone.”

“Well, I’d agree with that,” I say. “But why you?”

“I’ve got to wrap my presents. Is there any newspaper around?”

“You’ve actually bought presents? Wait, are you wrapping them in fucking newspaper?”

We stare after him, and he returns quickly with a copy of The Guardian and a small paper bag which clinks ominously. He opens it and discharges the contents cavalierly over the table. Six miniature bottles of spirits tumble out. “My God, have you been buying presents for Lilliputian alcoholics?” I ask, poking at one of the tiny bottles as Gabe laughs.

“Dude, be grateful I’m giving you first choice because it’s losers weepers for whoever gets the Drambuie.”

“Well, I definitely want the Jack Daniels,” I announce decisively.

Ben looks enquiringly at Gabe. “How about you, Gabe? Do you want a surprise i.e. Drambuie?”

Gabe looks nonplussed. “You’ve got me one?”

Ben looks surprised. “Of course.”

“He’ll have a surprise,” I say lightly. “Drambuie will be payment for all those terrible stories.” I stand up. “Ready?” I ask Gabe, who stands up quickly, anticipation and something else crossing his face. God, I want him.

Ben waves as we leave him. I blow the candles out, but leave the fire for him. He’ll bank it when he comes up. Gabe follows behind me, a dark figure at my heels, and for some reason the lightness of the evening changes, and a feeling of coiled anticipation curls between us. An invisible feeling that tugs between us as we climb the stairs.

“What time is it?” he asks, and I look abortively at my wrist.

“Fuck knows. My watch is broken.”

“Still? It’s been broken for weeks.”

I shrug. “It was a piece of shit anyway.” I look at him curiously. “Why do you ask? You’ve got a very expensive specimen on your wrist.”

He smiles enigmatically. “Just checking.” He looks at his own watch. “Well, what do you know, it’s Christmas Day.”

I stare at his darkened eyes and full lips, and breathe in deeply, before saying questioningly. “Merry Christmas?”

“Oh, it’s going to be,” he says, coming close and rubbing my bottom lip with a rough thumb. I shiver, and he smiles. “Go and shower.”

I nod jerkily. “You too. I’ll take the bathroom down the hall. You use the en-suite in my room.”

He nods and we separate, and as I shower, paying particular attention to certain areas, I feel dark anticipation curdling in my stomach. It’s only been a few days since we last fucked, but it feels like an eternity, and I need to feel him inside me like I need air to breathe.

When I come back to my room, I open the door and then gasp, before shutting it quickly and locking it. I stare at Gabe who is stark naked and sitting in the armchair by the window. His hair is still damp from his shower and his big body glistens, but my attention is caught and held by the tight grip he has on his very erect cock. His legs are spread apart, giving me a glimpse of the shadowy channel between them, and as I watch, a bead of pre-come seeps from the slit of his dick and drools over his fingers.

“God,” I gasp out, feeling my cock stiffen so quickly that it actually hurts.

His eyes had been slits showing just a hint of colour, but at my gasp, he opens them fully, and they glow quicksilver in the low lamplight. “Dylan,” he purrs, a debauched smile on his full lips.

“Is this my present?” I ask hoarsely, and he laughs. Still maintaining a grip on his cock, he nudges with his foot a brightly wrapped present that’s lying on the floor.

I stare at him. “You have very unusual Christmas traditions, Gabe. This is the first time that I’ve ever been given a present like this. Normally, we’re fully clothed with Christmas music playing.”

He smiles, holding his cock loosely now with his long fingers curved over the fat head. “This is a new tradition then? Good, I like giving you new experiences.”

I smirk. “I told you last week that I’d done that before.”

He chuckles. “Not like I did it.”

I stare at him. “No, Gabe, nobody does it like you.” I’d aimed for sarcasm, but it has the unfortunate ring of truth about it, and a flicker of trepidation crosses his face. To divert a lecture on our relationship status, I book it over the room and grab the box. “Can I open it?”

He looks at me intently. “Yes, but only if you lose the towel.”

I instantly drop the towel, leaving me open to his hot gaze. For a long second, I stand still as his eyes roam over me, catching and holding on my hard cock, and making a flush pass over my body. He shifts in the chair and nods bossily at the present I’m holding forgotten in my hand.

I jerk and tear open the wrapping, laughing as I realise that the paper has a pattern of tiny naked Santas holding their dicks. A smile crosses his wide mouth, before it slides into an almost predatory look as the paper falls off, revealing a long, brown box. “Open it,” he whispers.

I open the box quickly, and a shudder of anticipation runs through me. Inside, in a nest of pink tissue paper is a large, black Fleshlight, its pink, internal sleeve glistening in the light. It’s the arse version, and I run my fingers caressingly over the hole, shivering as I imagine my dick in there.

“Get on the bed, Dylan,” he growls, and I hustle to comply, arranging myself on my back and propping my head up on a pillow so that I can see everything. I’ve learned to do this, because Gabe gets off on me watching.

He rises from the seat and pads towards me, his dick rock hard and sticking up from its neat nest of black curls. His olive skin is stretched tight over his long, sinewy body, and fuck Brad Pitt, because Gabe looks more like a Greek god come to life than he ever did.

He crawls up from the bottom of the bed until he’s hovering at my side, leaning over my straining cock, and I can hear my panting breaths loud in the silence of the room.

“Got to get this wet first,” he says hoarsely, and before I can even think, he lowers his mouth over my cock and takes me to the back of his throat. I shout out and he looks up, his mouth stretched over the angry, red head of my prick. I groan and he closes his eyes for a second, and then proceeds to suck me hard, rising and falling on my cock like an automaton. 

I feel the tingle in my balls and cry out. “No, stop, Gabe.”

He pops off, and wipes his chin clean of the spittle lining it. “Already?”

“Laugh it up. It feels like years since your office.”

His expression darkens. “I know. Fuck, I know.” I want to ask whether he went with anyone else, but the words won’t come out, and then he shakes his head. “No one. I promised you.”

I nod and then groan, as he reaches down by his leg and retrieves the slim bottle of lube that had been in the box with my Fleshlight. He squirts it into his hands and rubs them together, warming it the way he always does. Such small solicitous gestures that he makes when he thinks I don’t notice.

My thoughts scatter as his long fingers wrap round my cock, and he grabs me tight in his fist. “Fuck my hand,” he says hoarsely, and I groan and begin to cant my hips back and forth, pistoning into his fist and crying out as his fingers twist on the top, rubbing the sensitive spot underneath the head.

Then I cry out as his hand falls away, leaving me to fuck the air for a second of two. “Slow down,” he says deeply. “I want a while to play.” He reaches down and grabs my cock hard, waiting until my breathing steadies.

Then he grins wickedly and reaches over for the Fleshlight. Running a finger lightly down my wet cock he smiles as I shudder. Then I almost stop breathing as he holds my cock up straight with one hand, while the other hand positions the opening of the Fleshlight against the fleshy head. For a long second he rests it there, working it slowly and sensually against the wide, flared, mushroom head, and then looking up, he traps my gaze with his. His eyes are blown almost black, and he holds my eyes, as rocking the Fleshlight slightly he slides it down my prick.

I shout out as the slick, tight hold grips my cock. It’s amazing and mind blowing, and made even more so by Gabe’s expression, which almost looks feral as he watches my dick disappear into the Fleshlight.

“Oh shit!” I arch up as he pulls it smoothly back. I feel the cool air strike my cock for a second, and then the Fleshlight shuttles back down, sucking my dick into its spongy grip. “Oh God, that’s so fucking good,” I grit out, and Gabe moans loudly.

“You look so fucking hot,” he mutters. “Look at it swallow your cock.” He tears his gaze away from my prick. “I’m going to drive you out of your fucking mind.”

“Nearly there,” I groan, as he pulls the device up and pushes it down.

“Not yet, but you will be.”

He keeps his word. He alternates long, deep, slow strokes when the Fleshlight swallows me up, with short thrusts that grind against my sensitive cock head with an insane pressure. Every time I tense to come, he backs off and lets me calm down, before starting again.

Times slows, and all I can feel is the sweat on my body and the sweet pain in my balls and cock. My muscles are so tight they feel sore, and my senses have narrowed down to the feel of my body and the touch of his hands. The sound of my moans and hoarse groans echo in the room, along with the filthy squelch of the lube and the sucking noises from the Fleshlight.

I arch into the slick grip. “Enough,” I groan. “I’ve got to fucking come. Please, Gabe.” My voice has a throbbing sob in it, and I hear him groan. Forcing my eyes open, I look at him and moan. Sweat coats him. His face is dark with an almost suffocating lust, and his blood-red prick throbs visibly. It’s angry looking with pre-come drooling over the head. He’s at my side bending over me, and I can smell the sweet, salt scent of his pre-come and sweat, and it makes my mouth water.

“Not yet,” he mutters. “Not yet.”

“Yes, now,” I hiss, and leaning sideways I take his cock down my throat and suck hard. I’m rewarded with a spurt of come and he shouts out, trying to move away, but against his will rocking into my mouth. He’s so far gone that he doesn’t make any of his usual efforts to ensure that he doesn’t hurt me. Instead, he rocks in hard, fucking my mouth with gasps and filthy threats.

I moan around his cock and fuck my hips up, and he jerks as if remembering what he was doing. Then he resumes his jerking motion with the Fleshlight. But now he makes no attempt to draw things out. His only concern is both of us coming, and he works my cock relentlessly with the device. Then he reaches down, and after caressing my balls he sends a finger down, coating it in the lube slicking between my thighs, before pushing it into my hole.

I moan a garbled sound around his cock, as he pushes the Fleshlight down, and it’s for the last time. He crooks his finger inside me massaging my prostate, and it’s game over. Sparks shoot down my spine and I feel the come broiling in the base of my cock, before the insane pressure breaks, and I shoot seemingly endlessly, emptying myself into the plastic arse.

As the last spurt leaves me, Gabe pulls himself from my slack mouth and spins to face me. He’s frantic and lust drunk. “Now. I’ve got to -” he gasps, shuttling his hand over his cock.

“On me,” I moan and he nods frantically, before throwing his head back and calling out hoarsely. I spare a quick thank you that nobody sleeps nearby, but then he jerks and spurts over me, ropes of hot cream hitting my chest and neck and lips. I lick my lips, moaning at the taste, and he comes down over me kissing me deeply. He slicks his fingers in the cream and coats my lips with it, so we share his come as we kiss with spunk-slick lips.

Silence descends and I fall into it with abandon, aware only of the sweaty, hot body holding me tight, and the slowing of our breaths. After a while he moves, and I tighten my hold on him. “No,” I chide, and he chuckles.

“I’m just going to get a wet cloth.” I let him go, hearing the door open and close, and then he’s back, gently removing the Fleshlight and wiping me down. “I’ll clean that tomorrow,” he mutters and I nod, enjoying the warm brush of the cloth on me. He flings it down by the side of the bed, but when he doesn’t come back I force my eyes open, to find him hovering by the bed looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

“Gabe?”

“Where should I sleep?” he asks, and I groan and sit up quickly.

“God, I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t like to share a bed. Do you want me to get the pull-out? It won’t take a second.”

He shakes his head quickly, running his hands nervously through his hair as I stare at him, unsure what’s happening. “Would you … could I sleep with you maybe?” The words come out in a rush, and completely unlike his normal fluid and smooth diction, but I feel them bang and batter against my heart.

“Of course you can,” I say tenderly, and he shoots me a warning glance. However, when I pull back the duvet to let him in, he moves quickly and eagerly, sliding in and nestling against me. I try to hold myself a little apart, aware that he isn’t used to sharing a bed, but I give in when he nestles against my skin and gives a throaty sound of happiness. Ignoring his startled gasp, I open my arms and drag him close. He stiffens, but almost immediately capitulates and rests his head on my shoulder.

I hold him tight, aware when his breaths slacken into the deep, even sounds of sleep, and I can kiss his head and inhale his scent without him protesting. I don’t let go. I feel the need to grab a tight hold on him because, like water, he’s going to slip through my fingers and flow away sometime soon. I can sense it.