Page 65 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

“I’m very clever.”Kenny’s office chair creaked through the line, as if he was leaning back, probably tapping his pen to his lips, legs crossed in that hot, fucking psychology professor way.“Astute, some might say.”

Aaron let out a quiet breath. “Fuck. I think I might need something.”

“I know, baby. And you’re ready.”

“I am?”

“You wouldn’t have called if you weren’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not pretending anymore. You’re reaching out.”

Aaron closed his eyes. “But I’ve needed you all along.”

“No. You’ve wanted me. Need is very different.”

“How so?”

“Want is your body. Need is your mind. And what am I, Aaron?”

“A head person.”

“Mmm. I do very much love head.”

“You’re a prick.”

Kenny chuckled, then recalibrated.“Wear the jumper. Smile for the photos. Put on your fakery. Raise the money. Say what you need to say. Do what you need to do. Get thosedogs in their safe new homes.”A pause. Heavy with meaning.“Like the one you have now. With me.”

Aaron’s heart kicked hard in his chest.

Then Kenny shifted into velvet, warm and commanding.“Then come home with me, and I’ll strip the whole day off you. Piece by piece. And will hold you safe and let you breathe. Then I’ll give you what you need. Deserve.”

Somehow, in a toilet full of flickering lights, with a jumper that didn’t fit his skin but hugged him anyway, Aaron smiled.

The only genuine one he’d give today, that was for sure.

Chapter eleven

Who’s Gonna Hear Their Wish?

Kenny set his phone down on the dining table, screen facedown, and braced his hands on either side of the sprawl of case notes. Aaron had called him, out of nowhere, to say he loved him. No provocation. No coaxing. Just raw, unguarded truth slipping past those sharp teeth.

What it meant was simple.

Aaron was ready.

Utterly, devastatingly ready.

And that knowledge lit something in Kenny he couldn’t afford to touch. Not yet.

The half-drunk coffee beside him had gone cold, a ring staining the yellow legal pad covered in his looping script. He hadn’t moved in over an hour. Not since he’d come downstairs chasing the leftover heat from the fire. He’d tried pacing, burning off the restless pulse of wanting. But stillness had claimed him again, as it always did when he needed control.

Stillness was his shield. His discipline.

Even when it hurt.

Because that was when patterns emerged.