Chapter 12 Eli
TWELVE
ELI
My phone buzzes just after ten in the morning.
Ant: Change of plans. He’s heading down to Canberra for a few days before flying out. Long story. You okay if I swing by later? Henry’s with Mel for the arvo. I just want to spend some time with him first.
A second bubble lands before I can reply.
Ant: I’d like to see you.
I’m sweeping sawdust off my worktable when the relief of that message hits—sharp and messy.
The house feels bigger all at once, like the walls have taken a deeper breath.
I think of Henry’s face over dinner yesterday—Owen’s third day of visiting and our second time hanging out while he’s been here—and how he tried so hard to be taller than his disappointment, the way he stubbornly pressed his shoulder to Ant’s like ballast. I think of the look Ant gave me when Owen aimed a smile past his son and straight at me—like Ant was torn between stepping in front of a moving car and not giving the car the satisfaction.
I thumb back:
Me: Come by. I’m here.
The day moves in small increments. I sand a drawer runner down to renewed dignity, oil the hall table until the grain wakes up, and shower off the cling of lemon soap and eucalyptus.
By late afternoon, the sky has slipped into that peach-gold the Coast does so well.
The poinciana throws long shadows across my front step.
I can hear the river birds going off about things that don’t concern them.
When Ant knocks, I don’t make him wait.
He looks tired in the way that lives in your shoulders: a load carried for longer than anyone notices. But his smile when he sees me is real, and the way his eyes drop—mouth, throat, chest—and come back up again makes heat bloom low and sure.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.” I step aside. “You okay?”
He nods, stepping in, keys clipped against his palm. “Better now.”
We stand there for a moment in my little entryway, like neither of us is sure if the next breath is conversation or something else. Then we both move at once—awkward, relieved—and I fold him in. Arms around his back, cheek to his temple. He exhales like it’s been waiting all day to get out.
“Henry?” I ask into his hair.
“Good,” he says. “Mel’s got them making pizzas. He sent me a photo of a face made of olives that will haunt my dreams.” He huffs a laugh that’s mostly fondness. “He’s… good.”
The knot I’ve been carrying since receiving Ant’s text and imagining Henry’s disappointment loosens another notch. “And Owen?”
“Headed south.” Ant leans back enough to look at me. “He wanted to do the restaurant-and-selfie tour. Henry wanted home. We chose home.” A beat follows. “Owen didn’t love that.”
“I’m shocked,” I say drily, and it earns me the full crack of his grin.
“Thank you,” he says, the words low. “For earlier. For yesterday. For… all of it.”
“You don’t have to thank me for loving your kid,” I say before my brain can package it up with a bow. The word hangs there between us—love—and I don’t try to snatch it back or soften it with a joke. I let it stand.
Something in his face opens. Not surprise. Recognition.
“Come here,” he says.
He kisses me in the doorway like he’s been thinking about it since the first day a rogue soccer ball turned us into a story.
It’s not careful. It’s not tentative. It’s a slide of mouth against mouth that finds heat fast and keeps going.
My fingers curl in the cotton at his waist, and he makes a sound I feel more than hear—hungry, wanting—which is all it takes to tumble us towards the couch, the first flat surface that will hold two men desperate for connection and comfort.
The couch gives, a good-natured sigh of old springs, and we go with it in a tangle that doesn’t bother looking graceful.
He’s warm everywhere—chest, forearms, the long line of thigh—and he kisses like he works: present, focused, no wasted motion.
When he lifts his head to breathe, he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
There’s no distance left. Just us. Just now.
“Bedroom,” I manage, because the couch was fine for a start, but I want him where I can put hands on every inch without negotiating with a coffee table.
He nods, breath hitching, and we stand in that quick, clumsy way of people who don’t actually want to stand. We fumble towards the hall, bumping shoulders, laughing once when we try to go through the door at the same time like teenagers who’ve forgotten how bodies navigate doorways.
In my room, the light is low and golden. Evening gathers in the corners, the last of it laying a stripe across the bed. He pauses there, just for a breath, like he’s saving a picture, and then he’s on me again, and there’s no more saving for later.
Clothes blur—cotton, denim, buttons that won’t mind if we get impatient. Skin finds skin. Heat finds heat. Everything narrows to the press and slide, the familiar made new by the person wearing it.
I learn him in a different language than the one we use over coffee or even during the previous times we’ve come together chasing kisses and orgasms. The weight and warmth of his shoulder under my hand.
The way his breath goes ragged when my mouth takes a slow path down his chest. He learns me back, sure as if he’s been paying attention with intent all this time—and he has.
His hands find noise in me. I don’t try to be quiet.
“Eli,” he says, like the word is a secret he’s finally allowed to say out loud.
“Yeah,” I answer, then tug him closer.
The world tightens to pulse and rhythm and the flex of bodies that have run out of patience.
When I reach him, he shudders; when he reaches me, I swear.
We tip quickly past careful into a place that’s as much relief as it is want.
It’s been weeks of getting to know each other, half a week of restraint with the uncertainty of Owen’s presence.
The band snaps, and all that held-back heat rushes in.
“Tell me,” I say, voice rough.
“That I want you,” he says, breathless and honest. “That I’ve wanted you since you limped after being smacked off your bike and still looked out for my kid the next day.” His hand moves to the back of my neck, the other at my hip. “That I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” I say, and the word is a promise. “Good.”
We come to each other in a surge that feels like weather breaking—like the first breath after a long, heavy storm. I don’t need to translate it into words; my body already knows what it means. We fit perfectly.
Ant guides me back against the mattress, one steady hand at my shoulder, the other tracing down my side in a line that makes my breath catch.
He moves with the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly where we’re going but still takes the time to get me there.
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary, checking, waiting for that unspoken yes as his finger slowly drives into me, slick with lube and hot.
When I give it—more in the way I lean into him than anything I say—his touch deepens. Two fingers become three, working in and out of me, stretching me. I’m already close to detonating.
I can’t form words. Small gasps, groans, and grunts spill out of me with each touch and rub of his fingers.
He skims his palms over me in slow, purposeful sweeps, mapping the shape of me like he’s committing it to memory.
Every movement is deliberate, a careful gathering of heat and trust, and it makes my pulse climb in sync with his.
He shifts his weight, leaning over me so the air between us grows warmer, heavier.
I feel the heat of his breath at my jaw, the faint scrape of stubble as he murmurs words I can’t quite catch.
His hands are everywhere—steadying my hips, smoothing over my thighs, coaxing me open in ways that are more about care than urgency.
The mattress dips under his knees, his body slotting over mine, solid and unshakable. The combination of his weight, the deliberate pace, the grounding pressure of his hands—it all builds the same message: I’ve got you.
By the time he settles fully above me, there’s no space left between us. My body feels tuned to his, each breath and shift syncing without effort. I can feel the thud of his heart where our chests press together, and it’s as much an anchor as it is a spark.
Then he presses forwards, into me, slow and certain until he’s fully seated.
The air leaves my lungs in a sound that’s part gasp, part relief.
The shift is deep, consuming—like a piece sliding into place that’s been waiting too long.
His weight bears me down in the best way, steady and certain as he moves his hips, driving in deep before flexing and easing out.
Each time he fucks into me, heat blooms low and sharp, spreading out until it feels like it’s in every inch of me.
I tighten around him instinctively, and his breath catches against my neck.
“Fuck, Eli. Do it again.”
I clamp around him, squeezing his cock, relishing in the tremble of his limbs and just how full I am.
For a moment, neither of us moves, holding in the perfect stretch of connection as if to mark it—this is where we begin. When he finally shifts again, it’s with care at first, every slow push drawing me closer to him until the rhythm builds on its own and my body rises to meet it.
We move in sync—slow becoming deeper, hungrier, with the kind of urgency that comes from knowing exactly what you want and not needing to hold back. His breath stirs against my neck, warm and uneven, every exhale skating across my skin like a promise he fully intends to keep.
“So fucking good.”
I grunt in response as I slip my hand between us and squeeze my balls.