Page 18 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

“Temporary glitch in the matrix. Don’t panic, I still drink boxed wine and cry at Coco.”

“Thank fuck. I’d block you otherwise.”

They chatted longer. Old rhythm, nothing heavy. Then Aaron ended the call, pocketed the phone, and trudged the rest of the way home.

The cottage glowed as he approached. Light in the windows, fire in the hearth. The smell hit him the second he stepped inside: tomatoes, paprika, fresh bread.

His stomach growled.

Chaos dropped his damp self onto the rug and exhaled with theatrical satisfaction as Aaron hung up the lead and his coat, then shucked off his boots. He roamed to the kitchen, drawn by the warmth and the smell and the quiet rhythm of Kenny at the stove, sleeves rolled to the elbow, sauce bubbling in the pan.

Aaron groaned. “You didshakshuka? Are you trying to kill me?”

Kenny didn’t look up. “You’ve been good.”

Aaron narrowed his eyes. “You are so full of shit.”

“You brought the milk.”

“I got theothermilk.”

“Still counts.”

Aaron dropped his shopping bag, crossed to the stove, and dropped his chin onto Kenny’s shoulder, fully expecting to be told off. But he wasn’t. Cause Kenny was a goddamn mind reader. He knew. He always fucking knew. He’d probably assessed it in how he turned the key in the lock, the way he’d slouched into the kitchen, the guarded pursing of his lips that wasn’t a smile but a worry.

Telltale signs of a system nearing overload.

He was holding. And Kenny, ever the quiet observer, read it in seconds.

God, he might cry.

So he grumbled instead, “You’re feeding me to stop me exploding.”

“I’m feeding you because you’re hungry.”

“I’m horny.”

“I’m aware.”

Aaron dipped his finger in the pan, then sucked the tomato off with exaggerated misery. “You’re weaponising breakfast.”

“Lunch.”

“Brunch then. Edging brunch.”He breathed him in, the scent of Kenny’s skin and spice and smugness grounding him instantly. He pressed his cheek to Kenny’s shoulder, nudging his nose against the warm place beneath the collar. His entire body leaned without meaning to, as if it had decided for him.

He wanted a kiss.

Not a deep one. Not filthy. One of those tender ones. On the temple, maybe. Not a fuck-me-now kiss. Astay-with-mekiss.

Kenny said nothing. Didn’t make a show of it. But he did set the spoon down with quiet care, turned slightly, and slipped a hand to the back of Aaron’s neck. His fingers were warm. Steady, certain, no rush in them. And he looked at him. Really looked. A single breath passing between them.

Then he kissed him.

Not deep. Not filthy.

Lips on lips.

Barely any pressure.