Page 33 of The Five Hole

“Hey.”

It’s soft. Measured. But not cold.

“Hey,” I say back, and shut the door behind me.

A long moment passes.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d hear from you,” he says.

“I wasn’t sure I’d text,” I admit.

He nods. Sets the sandpaper down.

“I don’t know what that was last night,” I say. “But it didn’t feel like nothing.”

He looks at me for a second, like he’s working through how honest he’s ready to be. Then he says, “It wasn’t.”

Another silence.

Not awkward. Not easy either. Just full.

“I don’t . . . do this,” I say. “Not like this. Not with someone who could matter.”

“I don’t know what that means, Roe. Is that supposed to scare me off?”

“No,” I say. “I’m just trying to be honest here, Thatcher. I don’t know what the hell this is, but I want you, and not for some friends with benefits type thing or some one-off.”

He smiles. It’s faint. Wry.

I step closer.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me.

“I don’t do this either. I date . . .” He pauses. “But that’s it.” His eyes are wide and honest. “It’s never intimate. Never goes beyond a meal in public, if I’m being honest.”

I step closer. “You want intimate, Thatch?” I tease, and his eyes darken in response. “I’ve had a lot of temporary in my life. I don’t want to start something that’s gonna break us both open. And I don’t think I can do something casual, with you. I’m not sure I’m built for casual anymore. Not after this last year.”

Well, I said I was going to try to be honest. Guess that just about does it.

He swallows. Looks down for a second, then back up.

“I don’t know what this is, or where it’s going,” he says. “I can’t make promises, Rory.”

It’s enough.

“I can’t either.”

I step in close, and this time, when I kiss him, it’s slow. Intentional. No one watching even if they want to. No chance of being seen.

Just us.

His hands find my sides, careful but sure, and I let mine press against the back of his neck. He exhales into it, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

When we pull apart, neither of us moves away.

I feel his fingers curl, bunching my shirt as he pulls me closer. This time Thatcher’s mouth finds mine, and I whimper into the heated kiss.

The scrape of his beard against my lips ignites something and the kiss turns hungry. But he isn’t quite hungry enough yet. I need all the restrained desire in his kiss to find another outlet. All over me.