Page 83 of Heartstring

“No, I—”

“Do you think I give myself so easily to just anyone?”

“No.”

“Doyougive yourself to just anyone? You don’t need to answer because you told me you don’t. What we have is bigger than sex, bigger than our history, bigger than the passing of time. Don’t ask me to pretend you’re a meaningless hookup or that it doesn’t upset me when you’re upset. Don’t ask me to not care because I can’t do it. I won’t.”

When I fuck up, I fuck up big. And it doesn’t take a genius to know I’ve fucked up.

I round the table and walk into Mik’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” I say into his chest, kissing the skin over his heart, wishing I could reach all the way inside. “I’m so scared to lose you again.”

“You won’t.” He rubs a circle over my back. “I know what happened was involuntary. Hell, I get it. It was the first time you’d slept with someone, and you got confused. Maybe next time I’ll wake up earlier, and before your brain can unscramble, I’ll suck your dick until you’re coming in my mouth, shouting my name.”

Somehow what he says makes me laugh, and I don’t feel as much of a screwup.

I stand straight to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry…again,” I say.

“You can be sorry for making us eat cold pancakes.”

I chuckle. “I am sorry for that.”

He kisses me gently on the lips and slaps my ass before pushing me to sit at the table, then he brings a plate stacked with pancakes and perfectly cooked bacon.

“If Seymour saw this, he’d marry you on the spot,” I say, taking a piece of the crispy, salty bacon into my mouth.

“What can I say? I’m a catch.”

Before he sits, I pull him close so he has no choice but to straddle me.

“You are a catch.” I feed him a piece of my bacon and then explore his hard chest with my hands as I watch him chew and swallow the food. Then I pull him for a kiss. “Mmm, you taste delicious.”

We feed each other breakfast, taking turns, and he never returns to his chair. By the time all the pancakes and bacon are gone, we’re making out heavily. Our sweatpants do nothing to constrain our erections.

“Fuck, when do you need to go home?” I ask.

“Not for a few hours.”

“Good.” I stand, taking him with me. I like that he’s lighter than he looks because getting old is no joke, but at the same time, I love the way his breath catches as I carry him to the couch.

I set him down and cover his body with mine, undulating my hips over his.

I’m reaching for the waistband of his pants when the doorbell rings at the same time as Mik’s phone.

“I’ll take the door. You get the phone.”

“Yes, sir.” He laughs.

Seymour called yesterday saying he was running a few days late and, in any case, he has a key. I’m not expecting any deliveries, so this has to be another lost tourist. I try to think about when the last craft fair was. Between working at the kitchen and reconnecting with Mik, I’ve lost track of time. If there’s a fair today, I’m going to put in extra hours at the kitchen.

When I open the door, I’m blinded by flashing lights and people shouting. It takes me a moment to understand what they’re saying, but when I do, it’s already too late because Mik is right beside me.

“Mr. Nilsson, is this a new relationship? Are you engaged? Is this why the band hasn’t released the new tour dates?”

I push the door closed. Mik stares at me wide-eyed.