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“I think we’re more than close,” he countered. Then he looked at me, at my lips, his finger tracing my jawline as I lay there like a giant lump of clay. Heavy. Motionless.

Or so I thought, but then my hand was back on his stubbled jaw. Soft. Prickly.

Exciting. He made me breathless, and I couldn’t put words to what I was feeling, apart from a little dizzy. I was a grown man, yet suddenly I felt like a teenager in heat, crawling around until I was on top of him, his hands around my face as mine were around his, and when our lips finally met, it was like…

I’d waited all my life for this. My entire existence was trivial compared to this very minute when we were just one, my knees digging deep into the sofa, straddling him as he sank into the backrest, my chest pressed to his.

I felt every heartbeat. His and mine.

“Stew…”

He stopped. I didn’t want him to.

“Tell me what you want. Whatever you want, I will try to give it to you.”

That was a big offer. A huge one. The responsibility was endless.

I wanted to squeal out that I didn’t know. That I had no idea where to go from here, and that I was too old and broken and disjointed to ever be what he wanted me to be. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t precious. I wasn’t anything but a collection of fragmented humanity shoved into a laundered shirt. The tie around my neck suddenly felt wrong.

This wasn’t who I was. This wasn’t what was supposed to be my life. The urge to flee hit me, trickles of panic rising through me as my breath left my lungs in a rush.

“Dylan,” he said quietly, cupping my face. “Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.”

“Can I sleep here?” shot out of my mouth.

Self-preservation, fear, panic…then an overwhelming feeling of calm as he wrapped his arms around me, held me against his beating heart.

“You’re staying,” he said. “However that pans out, you’re safe with me.”

For the first time in a long time, I believed it.

16. Stewart

This was who Dylan was, and I felt so incredibly grateful that he was letting me in. That all the frustration and insecurities and all that fear was right there for me to see. I understood. God help me, I did, because I was frightened too—of what I had let myself in for, the promises I was making, and the constant realisation that with every step forward…well, there was no way back.

I was in deep. Far too deep.

I made him stand up, in front of me, and then, in a moment of clarity, I left him standing there as I went over and closed the patio door. Locked it. Pulled the curtains shut, despite the light still seeping through the top from outside.

I had no idea what time it was and had even less idea where my phone was. My wristwatch was probably somewhere in the kitchen, where I’d taken it off during cooking. I would have missed calls from my son. Perhaps offers of work. Suddenly these usual essentials seemed less important.

Time wasn’t useful here. I always used to watch the news at ten o’clock. BBC One. Now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat through it because over the past week, I’d spent the evenings on my patio talking to the guy who was standing next to my sofa staring at his socked toes.

“I’m going to take you to bed,” I said, blushing. “That makes me sound like I’m in a period drama.”

“It does.” He smiled. “But I don’t mind. I can be the dishevelled poor gentleman who has lost his fortune and is now standing here begging for…”

“Begging for what?” I was enjoying this. So much. My hands moved of their own accord, gently unbuttoninghis shirt, then moving upwards to loosen his tie, slowly easing it around his neck so I could pull it away. I let it drop to the floor.

“Mercy,” he whispered.

“You have all of it,” I said in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. “You have my admiration. My affection. My…feelings.”

Silly, pompous phrases that meant nothing. I sounded weird, fake, but he leant up and pressed his mouth to mine as I dragged his shirt over his shoulders. My teeth dragged over his jaw, a move that surprised me, even more so my greedy kisses down his fragile neck. I stroked down his arms, a little startled by the texture of his scars, which I slowly traced with my fingertips before I kissed his shoulder blade. Smoothing down the curves of his skin, I raised that arm so I could see the markings he’d carved out. Broken lines, now faded from how red and angry they must have once been against his pale skin. I kissed them. Because I loved him.

A terrifying thought, yet not, because I felt it, in that very precious moment when I kissed the inside of his arm. It was nothing I’d ever seen on film. Not the done thing. But I wanted it. I wanted him to know how I adored every little piece of him. Every broken bone in his body was something worth admiring, simply because he existed.Because he was someone who I didn’t have to share with anyone else. Someone who…

“You’re mine,” burst from me as I once again returned to his eager mouth, mauling those pretty lips. His skin, so bruised and battered by life, was soft and perfect. He’d shaved. I could smell it—the familiar scent of shaving foam and soap.