Page 20

Chapter twelve

Wes

I scrubbed a perfectly clean spatula for the third time, steel wool working against metal that didn't need the attention. The repetitive motion should have been soothing. Instead, my mind circled back to last night—Eric's mouth against mine, warm and certain under a canopy of stars.

A flush started at my collar. It was dangerous territory. I'd spent years perfecting the art of not wanting things out of my reach. Eric threatened to undo that with nothing more than his ridiculous optimism and those ocean-blue eyes that saw straight through my bullshit.

A soft thump echoed from the guest room, followed by the whisper of pages turning.

He was settling in for the evening with whatever book had captured his attention.

Probably something academic—coastal management theories or community development studies that would inform his thesis about places like this one.

And people like me.

Through the thin cottage walls, I heard him humming something tuneless. It had become such a normal sound. It was how it would be if he stayed—evenings full of shared spaces and comfortable routines, the cottage warming around two people instead of one.

If he stayed.

Eric had another two weeks remaining on his project, maybe a bit more if he pushed the boundaries. Then, back to Whistleport, graduate school applications, and a future that didn't include a broken-down caretaker on an island twenty miles from anywhere that mattered.

A door opened down the hall. Eric's footsteps moved toward what I assumed was the bathroom, floorboards creaking in the specific pattern I'd memorized over the past weeks. The water ran in the bathroom sink—tooth brushing, probably, or washing his face before bed—such ordinary sounds.

I gripped the counter edge, knuckles white against the worn laminate. The safe thing would be to head to my room, close the door, and let morning restore the careful distance we'd maintained before meteor showers and bourbon-laced hot chocolate scrambled my judgment.

Safety had never gotten me anything except sixteen years of solitude, and a heart so carefully guarded it barely remembered how to beat in anticipation of connection with another person.

The bathroom door opened. Eric's footsteps padded back toward the guest room, and I imagined him settling onto the narrow bed with his book, lamplight catching the gold threads in his sandy hair. He'd read until his eyes grew heavy, and then he'd sleep.

Alone.

He was going to bed alone in a room barely ten feet away from mine because I was too much of a coward to cross that distance and claim what we'd started under the stars.

I can't stay safe and keep him.

I wiped my hands on the dish towel one final time. When I briefly caught my hazy reflection in the dark kitchen window, I wondered what Eric saw when he looked at me.

I walked down the hallway before my brain could answer that question.

Pausing at the guest room door, I raised my hand to knock, heart beating out a quickened cadence against my ribs.

It was the moment—I was choosing between the careful half-life I'd built and whatever messy, uncertain future might be possible with Eric.

The floorboards creaked beneath my weight. On the other side of the door, pages stopped turning.

I knocked twice.

"Come in."

Eric didn't sound surprised. Had he been expecting me?

The door handle felt cold beneath my palm as I turned it, stepping into lamplight that transformed the spartan guest room into something warmer.

Eric sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, a thick paperback balanced on his knee.

The book's spine read Coastal Ecosystems in Transition —an academic tome that would have looked boring as hell in anyone else's hands.

He'd changed into flannel sleep pants and a thin t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest, outlining muscles I'd felt beneath my palms twenty-four hours ago. Desire washed over me, causing one hand to tremble.

"Hey." He closed the book carefully, thumb marking his place before setting it aside on the nightstand.

I stood in the doorway like an idiot, suddenly aware of my arms and how they hung at my sides, unsure what to do with limbs that felt too long for my body. The confident stride that had carried me down the hallway evaporated the moment I saw him, replaced by awkward uncertainty.

"We should talk." My words were rough like sandpaper, unfamiliar with serious conversations about relationships. "About last night."

Eric unfolded his legs and stood like he was bracing for impact. He took one step closer. "Okay. What about it?"

I'd rehearsed the moment briefly while scrubbing dishes and planned out reasonable words to explain my thoughts. I lost them in the fog of my awareness of standing so close to him.

Instead, I focused on how the lamplight caught the gold threads in his hair and how his t-shirt rode up to reveal a strip of pale skin above his waistband. His breathing quickened audibly.

I finally managed a few words. "I'm not good at this—talking about things that matter and letting people close enough to—" My voice failed.

Eric relaxed slightly. "You don't have to explain anything, Wes. If last night was a mistake—"

"It wasn't." I bit my lip. "It wasn't a mistake. That's the problem."

"How is that a problem?"

I dragged my fingers through my hair. I was so unprepared for wanting someone badly enough that every instinct screamed at me to run while every nerve ending begged me to stay.

"Because I don't want to keep pretending it didn't happen. I can't go back to acting like you're just some researcher passing through when the truth is—"

I stopped again. Eric waited patiently.

He prompted me. "The truth is what?"

"The truth is you've been here over two weeks, and I already can't imagine this place without you."

For a heartbeat, Eric looked like he might back away. Then, he spread his stance slightly, anchoring him in place.

"We don't have to talk right now." He stepped closer, eliminating the distance between us. His hand found my chest, palm flat against my sternum. "We can talk later. Right now, I just want—"

He rose onto his toes and kissed me, cutting off our conversation.

He'd moved first.

That alone pierced my heart. For all his warmth and light, Eric had been dancing around this as carefully as I had, but in that moment—when it counted—he was the brave one.

I actively leaned into the kiss, one hand coming up to cup the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly of mint toothpaste, familiar and foreign all at once.

The kiss deepened in fits and starts, more discovery than domination. I wasn't sure whose teeth knocked into whose, but it made us both pause and try again, slower. His lips were soft and searching, the kind of kiss that didn't demand, just asked is this okay? without words.

Eric's hands gripped my waist, then hesitated like he wasn't sure he had permission. I covered them with mine and pressed closer.

"Okay," I whispered.

He nodded like he wasn't sure whether to speak or cry, and I kissed him again before either of us could think too hard.

When we finally pulled apart, our breathing was a mess—loud and uneven, like we'd run uphill blindfolded. His cheeks were bright pink. He looked at me like he couldn't believe what was happening but wanted it all to be true.

"Are we really doing this?" he asked.

"If we're not, we're both about to be very embarrassed."

That made him laugh—a soft, unguarded sound that broke the tension like sunlight shattering storm clouds.

We fumbled down the narrow hallway toward the living room where there was more space, bumping shoulders and knocking into the wall once so hard it made a framed photo tilt. Neither of us fixed it. Our mouths kept finding each other, more confident now but still sweetly unsure.

At the end of the hall, I meant to guide him gently against the wall, but I misjudged the space and nudged a chair instead. The scrape made us both jump.

"Well, that was smooth," I muttered.

"We're naturals." Eric's grin warmed me.

I kissed it off his face to see if I could.

His hands tugged at the hem of my shirt.

"These things areaggressive." His fingers fumbled with the buttons. "Who designed flannel like it's body armor?"

"Here." I took over, popping the buttons open one by one until he could slide his hands beneath the fabric. His palms were warm. When they skimmed across my stomach, I shivered.

He stared at me like he was watching something sacred unfold. I couldn't hold his gaze for long—it was too much. Too seen. So, I reached forhisshirt, and when he raised his arms, I pulled it off fast enough that static lifted his hair into a slight halo.

He blinked. "Whoa, that was kind of hot."

"Shut up." I laughed and kissed him again so he'd forget I was blushing.

We pressed together, skin to skin. My hand drifted to his lower back, pulling him tighter, and he exhaled a low whimper into my mouth.

Then came the awkward part. Jeans. Belt loops. Zippers.

His fingers brushed mine at the waistband, and we both paused.

"Should we—?"

I answered immediately. "I think so unless you want to stop?"

"No. I just... haven't... done this much with a guy."

I reminded him. "Sixteen years. Actually, longer than that."

His eyes widened. "Seriously?"

I nodded. "So, we're kind of figuring it out together."

Eric smiled again. "That's actually... pretty great."

What followed wasn't graceful. There was a stubborn pant leg, a tangle of socks, and one moment where he nearly tripped, stepping out of his jeans and caught himself against the counter.

He gasped between laughs. "We're gonna break something."

"Hopefully not each other."

It wasn't fast or fiery—it was slow, exploratory, and breathtaking in its simplicity. We touched each other like men who didn't quite know the map but boldly stepped forward anyway.

His fingers wrapped around my cock like he wasn't sure he was doing it right, and honestly, neither was I.

It didn't matter. We were learning together, gasping softly, touching like it was new but inevitable.

I followed his lead, stroking and finding a rhythm that started shy and turned into something fluid and alive.

There were no perfect lines, no porn-star moves. Only breath, skin, and the heady intimacy of shared gasps and quiet moans in the low kitchen light.

When orgasms finally crashed over us, it wasn't some cinematic moment—it was clumsy and beautiful, bodies pressed close, mouths finding each other again not tostartsomething, but to saythank you . To sayyes, an emotional high-five.

Afterward, we leaned into each other. Eric said, "I can't feel my legs."

"I can't feel mysoul ."

We both laughed too hard.

And maybe that was the best part—knowing we didn't have to get everything right to getitright.

For a long moment, we didn't move.

Our breathing slowed in tandem; the only sounds were the tick of the kitchen clock and the distant hush of waves slapping rock. I became acutely aware of the mess—our clothes scattered like debris from a small, intimate storm.

We were both still catching our breath, grinning stupidly, when I reached for a kitchen towel and passed it to him. He accepted it with a bashful kind of thanks, using it without ceremony before handing it back.

It was sweet and a little absurd, and I didn't know what to do with the part of me that wanted to hold on to it forever.

Eric bent to retrieve his jeans, wrinkling his nose. "Well. These are not going back on with grace."

"You could just… not."

He looked at me, then at the hallway, then back. "You mean—?"

I nodded. "Come to bed. If you want."

There was a pause. Not long, but long enough for me to have a moment of doubt before correcting it.

"Yeah. I do… want."

We padded down the hall barefoot. At the threshold of my room, Eric hesitated.

"This is your fortress."

I turned to face him, my heart suddenly lodged somewhere between my throat and my ribs. "Maybe it doesn't have to be only mine anymore."

The bed creaked as we crawled in, naked, the sheets cool against flushed skin. We didn't rush to press close. We settled side by side, barely fitting on the narrow bed as we faced each other.

Eric spoke for both of us, saying, "I have no idea what I'm doing." His toes found mine under the covers, tentative and sweet. "You think we'll figure it out?" he asked.

"I think we're on our way."

He exhaled, and the tension began to drain from his body. "Thanks for not making it weird."

I reached for his hand beneath the covers. "Thanks for making it feel like something I want to wake up to."

Somewhere inside the walls, the old pipes knocked. Outside, the wind shifted.

Inside, we drifted closer under the covers. Warm. A little messy. Still figuring it out.

But not alone.

Eric rolled onto his back, and his breathing deepened, sliding toward sleep with the easy trust of someone who felt completely safe. I realized with startling clarity that I was no longer the same person who'd fallen asleep alone in my bed for sixteen years. I was now a man who wanted more.

Wanted love, even if I didn't quite know how to hold it without breaking it.

Eric mumbled something in his sleep, words too soft to decipher. He turned and pushed closer to me, pressing his face against my neck.

His body fit against mine like we'd been designed for each other. Maybe love wasn't about deserving anything. Perhaps it was about being brave enough to accept what was offered, even when you couldn't understand why someone would choose to offer it.

I pressed my face into his hair, breathing in the scent of island air. In the morning, we'd have to figure out what this meant, what came next, and how to navigate the space between his inevitable departure and the fragile thing we'd begun to build between us.

Tonight, I was content to hold him close and pretend that some things—some people—were worth the risk of believing in forever.