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Chapter thirty-eight

Mike

I hadn’t meant to move in. I mean, technically, I hadn’t. I’d just brought a few things over so I could stay with Elliot while he recovered. I was more of a live-in nurse or life support than a guy not-so-secretly craving to breathe the same air as Elliot.

It had just . . . happened.

One night turned into two, then three. Then I was leaving clothes in Elliot’s dresser, bringing over my laptop to grade papers at his kitchen table, falling asleep with Homer curled up at my feet like he owned the place.

At some point, while I was at school and Elliot managed a trip to the pet store, he bought bowls with Homer’s name on them.

That should have been my first sign that things were getting even more serious than I already believed they were.

The second should have been the way Elliot started leaving space for me in the bathroom cabinet, like it was nothing, like he expected me to be there. First, a toothbrush appeared. It was blue, just like the one I had at my house. It contrasted with his red one, the one he kept in the same glass on the counter with mine, like they were snuggling until needed.

The third flag—red or otherwise—was the way he watched me, soft and steady, like he wasn’t quite sure how I ended up in his life but wasn’t about to question it.

And me?

I was trying really hard not to think about how much I loved every moment we occupied the same space.

The first time I tried to cook in Elliot’s kitchen, he reacted like I’d announced I was about to perform open-heart surgery with a butter knife and a garden trowel.

“Wait—wait, wait, wait,” he said, moving his crutch aside as he limped over. “What the hell are you doing?”

I looked up from the cutting board, where I had been perfectly fine dicing tomatoes. Raw tomatoes wouldn’t burst into flame, right?

“Uh. Making dinner?”

Elliot stared at me. “Alone? Unsupervised? Not wearing a hazmat suit?”

I rolled my eyes. “I can cook, you know.”

“You burned a fucking boxed lasagna.”

I groaned. “We really have to move past that.”

Elliot crossed his arms, completely unconvinced.

“You are not burning down my kitchen,” he said. “I just renovated last year.”

I huffed. “I won’t burn it down.”

“I know you, Michael Albert.” Elliot arched a brow. “You’ll get distracted, start overthinking some existential literature nonsense, and next thing you know, firemen will bang down my door and drag me out into the street, naked and afraid, and likely charred.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.” I squinted at him. “And why would you be naked? You’re wearing clothes right now.”

He leaned against the counter, watching me like a damn hawk. “Go on then. Cook.”

I turned back to my cutting board, resolutely not thinking about the fact that Elliot hovering over me made me feel like I was performing a high-stakes high wire act over a pit of hungry—and possibly very angry—alligators.

I had just finished dicing the tomatoes when Elliot sucked in a sharp breath.

“What?” I asked.

Elliot pointed. “Your fingers are way too close to that blade.”

I scowled. “I know how to use a knife, Elliot.”

He shook his head, stepping in and wrapping his arm around me to place his hand atop mine, the one holding the knife. With his other hand, he shaped my fingers. “Use the blade. Let it do the work. Move the veggies, not the knife. This hand works as a guard.”

He was too close, too warm, too distracting.

“El,” I whispered, not trusting my voice. “I’ve got this.”

“Not without supervision, you don’t.”

I huffed, but my face felt hot.

Elliot smirked, clearly enjoying himself, especially the way his body pressed against mine.

Damn, if I didn’t feel a tingle down below—and that was not a Gordon Ramsay thing to feel while wielding the finest Japanese steel Target had to offer.

That night, I made bruschetta. Okay, fine, it was basically toast with shit on top, but I made it without burning or blowing anything up. Even Elliot was impressed.

Then we ordered pizza.

Man cannot live on bruschetta alone.

Nearly a week after Elliot was released from the hospital, we tried to be physically intimate. I wanted him naked so bad I could taste it, and he was so horned up I thought he might shoot all over me before we got his clothes off—which was an adventure all its own, considering how sore his ribs and foot and arm, and basically everything, were.

In fact, we didn’t just try that once. We tried several times. We were men on a mission, damn it.

But Elliot’s ribs proved too sore, and even though he gritted his teeth and tried to pretend it wasn’t a problem, I could see the pain on his face when he moved the wrong way. And there was no way in hell I was going to let him push through it just because he was stubborn . . . and hornier than a teenage boy with his first Penthouse .

So, we figured it out.

There were slow, teasing kisses on the couch, hands wandering but never pressing too far.

There were lazy mornings tangled together under the sheets, with Elliot’s hand on my back and my nose tucked into the crook of his neck.

There were nights I stayed up reading while Elliot slept beside me, his fingers curled around mine like he couldn’t bear to let go, even as he dreamed.

And if my body ached with wanting him, really wanting him, I didn’t complain.

By the end of the second week, Elliot was starting to go stir-crazy. I found him standing in front of the window, arms crossed, staring out at the driveway like he was considering making a run for it. Homer sat beside him, tail limp, eyes fixed on some squirrel or rock or whatever caught the furry little demon’s eye.

I leaned against the doorframe. “You good?”

Elliot sighed dramatically. “I hate not working.”

I smiled wryly. “I know.”

Elliot turned his head, glaring. “I really, really hate being bored.”

“You’re healing.” I laughed, stepping closer. “That’s work.”

Elliot grumbled something under his breath.

I reached out, brushing my fingers against his arm. “Hey. I have an idea.”

“Oh God.” Elliot turned, his expression wary. “This had better not involve lasagna and a blow torch.”

I rolled my eyes. “Relax. My friend owns a cabin up in the mountains. He offered to let me use it whenever. Want to get away this weekend? Homer loves it up there, and a little fresh air would do us both good.”

Elliot blinked. “A cabin?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Mountains, trees, a lake. No responsibilities. Just . . . us.”

Elliot studied me for a long moment.

Then—soft, quiet—he said, “You really like this, don’t you?”

I swallowed. “Like what?”

His lips twitched. “Being here.”

I let out a slow breath.

And I didn’t lie.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I do.”

Elliot exhaled, something shifting in his eyes.

Then he reached out, curling his fingers around mine.

“All right,” he said, voice warm. “Let’s go.”

And just like that—

We had our first trip together.