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Chapter twenty-eight

Mike

The grocery store was too bright. The kind of bright that made me question every decision I’d ever made, including wearing this particular pair of jeans and convincing myself I could survive on coffee and spite.

I wandered the aisles like a zombie, pushing my cart with the enthusiasm of a man who had lost the will to live but still needed toilet paper. I missed Elliot, wondered how he was doing, wished he could be with me as I roamed the aisles, foraging for food. I missed his laugh, his stupid, lopsided grin, the way he fought to not grin half the time. He acted all tough and surly, but I knew better. Underneath the bluster and six-foot-three wall of muscles, he was a mush pit.

And I missed him, damn it.

The wine section loomed ahead.

Perfect.

I stopped in front of the bottles, tilting my head as I scanned the labels.

Which pairs best with longing and despair? I wondered.

The Merlot looked too hopeful. Pinot Noir was for people who still had dreams. I needed something with the emotional depth of a black hole.

Ah. A Cabernet Sauvignon so dry that just looking at it made my throat tighten.

Perfect.

I set it into the cart and kept moving, dodging a very intense-looking elderly woman who was having a passionate conversation with a wedge of Brie. Some people shouldn’t be allowed out on their own, without their probation officer, or ankle bracelet.

“You know what?” I asked myself, as I stared blankly at a display of canned tomatoes. “I should cook tonight. Something fancy. Something that says, ‘I have my life together.’”

That was how I decided—against all logic, reason, and my personal history with kitchen appliances—to make lasagna from scratch.

By the time I got home, I was mentally prepared for a culinary masterpiece. I had fresh pasta sheets, cheese that cost more than my dignity, and a determination that could not be extinguished.

Unfortunately, neither could the actual fire I was about to start.

It began with the sauce.

I threw onions into a pan with the confidence of a man who had never actually burned water before.

Within minutes, the kitchen smelled like charred failure.

“Well, shit, I was supposed to add oil to the pan before the onions, wasn’t I?” I muttered, waving a dish towel at the smoke. “Not a strong start, but we can recover.”

Without scraping the black bits of onion out of the pan, I added tomato paste, canned tomatoes, and a very enthusiastic amount of garlic. Things were looking up. For approximately thirty seconds.

Then, I reached for the salt.

I did not grab the salt.

I grabbed the sugar.

By the time I realized my mistake, my sauce tasted like ketchup made for toddlers who had never known sadness—or sleep.

I squinted at the pot. “Maybe it’s . . . gourmet? Did I just create something new and bougie? Will they feature this in magazines or on TV?”

No. No, it was not gourmet.

Fine. Whatever. Cheese fixed everything, right?

I started the béchamel sauce, feeling unstoppable. A king in his kitchen. A culinary icon.

“Gordon Fucking Ramsay!” I shouted like my face was painted blue and I stood on the set of Braveheart .

Then, as I whisked the butter and flour together, I sneezed.

The flour billowed like the massive mushroom of a nuclear explosion. It drifted down in slow motion, coating my shirt, my face, and—somehow—the ceiling fan. How was that even possible?

Okay. No big deal. Flour is manageable.

Then I added the milk.

Too fast.

It sloshed out of the pan and onto the burner, creating a hissing, burning mess that smelled like fading dreams.

I groaned, stirring aggressively. “I am so bad at this.”

Then, the noodles.

“Why not?” I said to no one. “Everything else is going so well.”

Fun fact: Fresh pasta cooks faster than the boxed stuff.

Funner fact: I forgot that.

Eight minutes in, my noodles had melted into an unidentifiable blob that looked less like pasta and more like something that might start speaking in tongues if I prodded it.

I kept going, because quitting was for cowards.

I assembled the lasagna, layering the weirdly sweet tomato sauce, goopy béchamel, cheese that had been traumatized rather than aged, and noodles that had lost the will to exist, then shoved it into the oven and prayed to every god I could think of.

Homer whined at my feet.

“I know, buddy. Daddy’s cooking. I promise you’ll get your Farmer’s Dog.” Glancing down at my masterpiece, I added, “You okay if Daddy needs to share?”

He whimpered one last time, tucked his tail, and shuffled into the den.

Fifteen minutes later, the smell of burning cheese and undigestible something filled my kitchen.

I ran from the bedroom into the kitchen.

Smoke was pouring out of the oven.

“Oh, come on!”

I grabbed an oven mitt and flung the door open.

What an idiot. That was a terrible idea. Ovens had doors for a reason.

The lasagna was on fire.

And not in the fun “Wow, this dish is on fire!” kind of way.

In the actual, literal “I need a fire extinguisher immediately” kind of way.

How was that even possible, for pasta and tomatoes to burst into flames?

As I pondered that existential question, the smoke alarm went off.

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

I grabbed a towel and started flailing at the alarm like a deranged bird trying to take flight.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEE—

My phone rang.

I froze mid-flail, then yanked the phone out of my pocket with my free hand.

The name on the screen stopped me cold.

Elliot.

I groaned, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” I said, voice hoarse from a combination of smoke inhalation and shame.

There was a pause. Then Elliot laughed.

“Mike,” he said, way too amused, “why does it sound like you’re actively fighting for your life right now?”

I glanced at the smoking lasagna . . . then up at the beeping smoke alarm . . . then around at the kitchen, better powdered than a Geisha’s face.

The ruins of my dignity.

“Oh, uh, no reason. I’m just glad to hear your voice. You know, out-of-breath glad. Like you stole my breath just by calling.”

Elliot snorted. “Are you cooking?”

I scoffed. “How dare you.”

“You’re cooking again. Should I call the fire department now or wait until the flames reach your attic?” His voice was delighted.

“I’m attempting a new art form called culinary arson, thank you very much.”

Elliot laughed again, the sound like a warm hand on my chest, like something I hadn’t realized I was missing until it was there again.

“Seriously, you need me to call the fire department?” he teased.

“Joke’s on you,” I said, grabbing the extinguisher. “I’ve already memorized their number.”

Elliot was still laughing when I aimed the extinguisher at my lasagna, muttered a final prayer for its soul, and pulled the trigger.

With a whoosh, the foam sprayed everywhere, completely obliterating my final shred of hope.

I groaned loudly.

Elliot wheezed. “Oh my God, you just killed your lasagna, didn’t you?”

“Murdered it in cold blood.”

“Do I need to report you to the Italian government? Isn’t lasagna death a crime against humanity over there?”

“Please do. I deserve to be exiled.”

He chuckled. “Tell you what—I’ll cook next time. In fact, maybe I should be our designated cooker.”

My heart stuttered. Next time. Our designated . . .

I swallowed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, softer: “I miss you, Mike.”

I closed my eyes.

And for a second, I forgot the burning lasagna, the beeping alarm, the disaster around me.

For a second, there was just his voice.

“Yeah,” I exhaled. “I miss you, too. Like, a lot. A whole lot.”

Elliot hesitated. “I should let you . . . clean up whatever war zone you’ve created.”

I groaned. “Yeah. This is definitely going to require a hazmat team.”

He laughed again. “Call me later? Before you go to bed and are far, far from the kitchen?”

I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Yeah,” I said. “Talk soon.”

We hung up.

I looked at the charred, foam-covered remains of my lasagna and let my forehead hit the counter with a dull thud.

Worst. Timing. Ever.

The sheets were cool against my skin as I crawled into bed, my body finally catching up to the exhaustion that had been creeping over me all day. The scent of burned cheese still lingered faintly in the air despite my best efforts to air out the house, but at least the smoke alarm had shut up.

I sighed, stretching out against the pillows, then reached for my phone.

Elliot answered on the second ring.

“Michael,” he drawled, his voice already slipping into that lazy, low murmur that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

“That’s me,” I said, smirking. “And you’re the poor soul who decided to call me during a natural disaster earlier. How’s the hearing loss?”

Elliot laughed, warm and real. “Still ringing a little. Pretty sure I’ll have PTSD from that smoke alarm. In fact, your house might suffer, too. Is there therapy for houses? How’s the fallout?”

I groaned. “Kitchen’s still a war zone. There’s ricotta in places I didn’t know ricotta could be. Don’t get me started on the flour and extinguisher foam.”

“Your poor lasagna,” he teased. “Did it suffer much?”

“Don’t joke about the dead, Elliot.”

His laugh was a rumble, distant thunder rolling across a placid sea, and it settled into my chest like something I’d been missing for far too long.

We drifted into easy conversation, talking about the cleanup efforts in Florida, about Jamie and how the school needed a GSA, about Mateo’s latest war with the vending machine, which had, yet again, stolen his quarters without remorse.

Elliot chuckled. “You know, if you ever need an exorcism for that thing, I got a guy.”

“Oh yeah? Does he specialize in possessed snack machines?”

“That, and haunted toasters,” Elliot said. “Real niche market, but hey, work is work.”

I laughed, rubbing a hand over my face. God, I missed this. The banter, the warmth, the way he always made me feel lighter, even after the longest days. His humor was dryer than the wine I’d drank in lieu of sustenance, and hearing it made me feel almost as tipsy.

And then his voice dipped lower. Thicker.

“I’ve been thinking about . . . about our couch time.”

I froze, my entire body blazing in an instant. Never before in the history of bedtimes was I so thankful that I slept in the nude.

“Oh?” I said, keeping my voice casual, but my pulse had already picked up, and Little Mike was stretching his little arms and legs, readying for what might come . . . literally.

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. “Your mouth’s been driving me crazy all damn day.”

The air between us shifted. My fingers tightened around the phone.

Elliot’s voice dropped into something dark and delicious. “You gonna make me beg, Michael?”

A slow smile curled at my lips. “I dunno, maybe,” I murmured. “I think I like hearing you all worked up and desperate.”

A low growl rumbled from the other end.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he muttered.

And just like that, the slow burn burst into flames.

“You in bed?” Elliot asked.

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “Just me and the aftermath of my cooking failures.”

Elliot hummed. “What are you wearing?”

I smirked. “God, you really are predictable.”

“Answer the damn question.”

I glanced down. “Same thing I always wear to bed.”

“Hmm,” he rumbled. “Nothing, then. Me likey.”

I chuckled. “Me likey that you likey.”

A sharp breath from his end. “Fuck, Mike.”

A thrill ran through me.

“Uh, El, what are you doing?”

I shifted against the sheets, my skin hypersensitive now, the fabric teasing my skin as the weight of Elliot’s voice pressed into me, making my stomach tighten.

“Touching myself. Thinking about you. Wishing your tongue was wrapped around mine and—”

“Well, fuck.”

“That, too. A lot of that.”

The image of Elliot stretched out somewhere, all tanned skin and muscle, fisting the phone in one hand and something else in the other—Jesus.

“You hard?” I asked before I could stop myself.

A low chuckle. “Been hard since I called you earlier. You?”

“Getting there.”

“You gonna do something about it?”

A rush of heat pulsed through me. I let my hand drift lower, fingers grazing my stomach.

“Maybe,” I said, teasing. “If you ask nicely.”

I smirked, but my own restraint was hanging by a thread.

“Mike Albert,” Elliot groaned. “Grab your cock or hang up the phone.”

I swallowed, pressing my palm against my length, shuddering at the contact.

“You?” I asked, my voice rough.

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. “Got my hand around myself already. Thinking about you.”

I exhaled hard, kicking back the covers. The air felt electric against my skin, every nerve alive and raw.

“Put your phone on speaker,” Elliot said, voice tight. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

I hesitated, my fingers wrapping around myself.

“Mike,” Elliot warned. “Tell me exactly what you’re doing.”

I exhaled shakily, my hand moving slowly.

“I’m stroking myself,” I murmured. “Starting slow, just teasing. It’s—fuck, my head’s so sensitive.”

“Yeah?” A sharp inhale from the other end. “I’m leaking already.”

“Fuck. Taste yourself.”

A heartbeat passed.

“What do you taste like?”

“Tangy, salty, kind of like old socks.”

“Okay, that’s the first thing you’ve said that wasn’t hot.” I snorted. “Although—”

“Yeah?”

“Your musky scent drives me crazy.”

“Oh, really? So no showering after the gym next time?”

“God, no. I want you reeking.”

“You’re a sick man, Mike Albert.”

“I’m putting lube on my finger.”

The sound of shifting sheets rustled over my speaker. “Fuck, yeah. Tease that hole.”

“I’m back there. It’s an awkward . . . oh . . . got it.”

“Are you in?”

“Yeah,” I moaned. “Oh, yeah. God, my cock just got rock hard.”

“Stroke it for me.”

“Fuck, I am.”

His breathing grew heavy. “What are you doing with that finger?”

“Sliding it in and out.”

“Shove it deeper. Feel it hit—”

“God damn it, El. I think I poked my prostate.”

He growled. “Do it again.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Stroke yourself.”

“I am. And . . .”

“And?”

“I’m adding another finger.”

“Oh yeah, baby. Spread it wide. That’s my hole.”

I was too dazed by the electricity shooting through my body to focus on him claiming my ass, but the idea of it added to the thrill.

“It’s in . . . fuck . . . they’re in. I can’t go as deep, but I’m . . . stretching . . . so good.”

“Mike, fuck, I want to be there, to feel you, to kiss you.”

“Kiss me, El. I want your tongue again. Fuck, I miss you so much.”

“Stroke yourself faster. I’m getting close.”

“I’m stretching back, trying to get my fingers deeper. Shit, I need a toy for this. Oh! Damn it, El! I’m—”

“Don’t you fucking come without me! Hold on.”

The rustling grew louder, punctuated by groans and grunts and the sliding of slicked-up skin against skin.

“You’re so deep inside me, El. I can feel you. God, I want you to live inside me, baby.”

“I want to fill you up so bad, make all of you mine, Mike.”

“El . . . I can’t . . . fuck me . . . I’m coming.”

The first rope of white flew from my cock, smearing across my chest.

“Elliot!”

I shattered, my body arching, pleasure crashing through me in a raw, consuming wave. I let out a wrecked, needy moan, my whole body shaking with it.

His growls became a roar of pleasure. “I’m coming, babe. I’m right there with you. Feel me inside you, shooting my hot load up your ass. Feel me loving you so damn much.

”The last shot fired, my rational brain struggled to catch up. Had he said he loved me so damn much? Had I dreamed that part?

“Oh, shit, Mike. I’m about to—agh! Shit! Fuck me!”

His phone fell to the bed, and his grunts and groans became muffled, but there was no question what was happening. Elliot was exploding all over his hotel bed.

I let my head sink into my pillow and tried to steady my breathing. My mind was doing that Tasmanian devil spinning thing, so fast I could barely keep up.

A moment later, a silky, sultry, utterly satisfied voice said, “That was so good, Mike.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, the need pressing deep into my bones now. “Wish you were here.”

Elliot cursed under his breath. “You have no fucking idea what I’d do to you if I was there.”

I chuckled, though it took effort. “I have some idea. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

The only sound for a moment was breathing.

“I miss you, Mike.”

I swallowed past the tightness in my chest.

“Miss you, too,” I murmured. “Hurry home, okay?”

We stayed on the line, just breathing together, until sleep finally pulled me under.