Chapter 12 Callum #2
Ian, who's been hugging and comforting me for the past five minutes like I'm his best friend, likes guys too.
And now he’s shuffling backward, the absence of his touch almost painful. But necessary. Under any other circumstances, he would be safe. He'd be fine with me.
But not when he's a friend who I'm living with. Not when he's him and I'm me.
Sure, he likes guys, but there are a lot of guys. I'm one, and I'm a basket case.
“That’s not a problem, is it?” he asks, crossing his arms and resting against the opposite arm of the couch, twisting his fingers in a throw blanket. “Sorry, I probably should have told you before you moved in—”
I shake my head faster than I need to. “No! Not at all. Absolutely not a problem whatsoever. That’s cool. I’m cool with that. So cool.”
What's not cool right now is me, and it’s not like I can help myself.
“I don’t think I’ve met a gay guy before,” I continue.
Other than myself.
“Bi,” he corrects, and I mentally kick myself. “I mean, I lean toward men for the most part, I’m still way too into chicks for my own good.”
He probably means that as a joke, so I laugh, trying not to show that I'm still hung up on the fact that Ian's into men, too.
That fact changes everything and nothing.
Everything, because we have something else in common.
Nothing, because I want to do something with that fact, but I absolutely, one hundred percent can't.
“Sorry. I'm not good with all the terms and such,” I say. “Small town, remember?”
“No problem. I get it.” Ian pauses, pursing his lips. “Did you ever, like, contemplate not being straight? I can't imagine it was even presented as an option for you.”
My mouth hangs open. That’s an invitation. He wants to know if I’m not straight.
“You don't have to answer if you don't want to,” he rushes to say. “No big deal.”
It's a huge deal. I want to tell him. I want him to know, but unlike him revealing it to me, everything between us actually will change if I do so as well.
It'd be so much harder to hide my inappropriate, one-sided crush.
My heart is in my throat as I gulp down the rest of the beer in front of me. “No. I never thought about it.”
That's not a complete lie—I didn't have to think about liking guys; it simply was.
There was a crap ton of denial on my part, so that could count as thinking, but getting lost in the underwear aisle at the supermarket when I was twelve served as all the confirmation I needed, even if I didn't acknowledge it for years.
That, and Mr. Crofton’s tight polos.
I shove the thought aside, not wanting to go back to that dark time in my life.
“Nice, nice,” Ian says. “Even though you're straight, I'm glad you're cool with me and the rest of us.”
God, he even put emphasis on straight. It's like he's taunting me without knowing, goading me to come out and correct him. Ian should be safe—he's never not been—but I can't bring myself to tell him.
I know I don't owe my identity to anyone, especially if I'm not comfortable, and right now, I'm really not.
So I shrug, offering a weak smile as he yawns and stretches. We're silent for a while, sitting there in the dim light of the ambient lamps, and I'm about to ask if we're getting more drinks or heading to bed when Ian slumps over and rests his head on my shoulder.
“Man, what are you—” I freeze mid-sentence once my eyes catch up.
Ian is asleep on me, nuzzling his face into my shoulder like a blond-haired fawn.
My chest tightens and blooms with heat at the same time.
He's comfortable around me. At least enough to use me as some kind of undeserving pillow.
I hold my breath, not wanting to disturb him, but the way my heart is racing might wake him up anyway. Slowly, I shuffle away and let his head fall onto the couch cushioning, cramming myself into the corner.
If I let his head rest in my lap, he'd get a rude awakening in every sense of the term.
What should I do?
My evil brain flashes a tempting, forbidden image of me and Ian curled up together on the couch, waking up together with his strong arms wrapped around me and my hands in his soft hair.
No. He doesn't deserve that. I'll let him be.
For someone his size, he sure takes up a lot of space. He's still on his back, and he's stretching out across the couch, his arms sprawled open, almost like he's inviting me into them.
But he only does that when he's awake and upright. The last thing he needs is for me to crush him with my cumbersome body.
Still, that sprawl is way too enticing, especially how it stretches the fabric of his old shirt across his chest and makes the hem ride up, giving me a teasing glimpse of his trim stomach. I shut my eyes and let out a long, painful exhale.
If he's taking my bed, I suppose I could crash in his, and try to play it off as a joke tomorrow.
No. That'd blur lines, and I don't trust myself not to have another lecherous dream under blankets that smell like the man I can't stop craving. The idea of cleaning a mess out of Ian's sheets is more than enough for me to drop the ludicrous, selfish idea.
That leaves me with my next option, which is moving him to his bedroom.
Bracing myself, I stand up and slip my left arm under that strong, wide back, and I come close to giving up when he mumbles the cutest sleepy complaint.
“Come on, work with me,” I murmur, crossing my fingers that he doesn't do something like try to snuggle me in his sleep.
I scoop my other arm under his knees, making sure not to be a creep and touch his butt, and I lift him with the gentlest, slowest force I can manage.
His body slides, lifting his shirt even more and pressing the bare skin of his back into my forearm.
Ian runs hot, sure, but god, this feels like he's singing my hair off.
And then his head slumps onto my chest.
My arms burn with his weight, but I can't stop myself from pausing and taking him in. His hair tickles my chin, and I tilt downward instinctively to stop the itch.
Oh, great! I'm kissing Ian's head. That's so weird, and it's also the hottest thing I've ever done with someone else.
Jesus. I'm using him again. He doesn't want this. He can't want this with someone like me.
I jerk my head up and lumber around the bookshelf, nudging the door to his bedroom open. I've never seen inside it before, and I'm hoping his bed isn't too far away because my arms are on fire.
Holy hell, Ian sure packs a lot into his frame. And maybe he's packing—
Screw off, Callum. Stop being a pervert.
I manage to avoid dropping him, and I deposit him into the crumpled sheets of the unmade bed. Seconds later, I've pulled the thin comforter over his body, deriving far too much undeserved satisfaction from the simple act of tucking him in.
Ian does so much for me, and he cares more about me than anyone ever has. It's about time I return the favor, even if it's with something as basic and deceivingly intimate as covering him up.
I step backward out of the room, watching the rise and fall of his body to make sure he stays asleep.
I fill up a glass in the kitchen and place it on his nightstand, and as I'm about to leave, I notice another blanket draped over his desk chair.
It's frigid out tonight, and he could use another one, especially since he’s always so cold.
I shake it out and place it on top of his comforter, careful not to wake him up, but I'm not careful enough to avoid accidentally hitting him in the face with a corner.
Luckily, he only mumbles something unintelligible before curling into the newly added weight and—
Oh no, he smiles.
I think my stomach sinks, or maybe it jumps or rises, but it doesn't matter. My heart reacts to him again.
He's cute. He's so damn cute, and I'm so damn weak, so much so that I steal another lingering look at his beautiful face before I leave for the couch.
Ian is so peaceful.
Peaceful and oblivious to how hard I'm falling for him.
For a fleeting second, I let myself entertain the thought that in another life, I might have the stones to flirt with him for real.
But the only life I have is the one I'm living—I’m a mess, Ian's amazing, and we’re friends.
That’s more than I could have possibly dreamed of when I first came here, and there’s no way I’m gonna mess that up.
I settle in for the night and pull the covers over me, hoping they block out the fact that this is Ian's house and his presence is everywhere, and all I get is a lungful of his cologne lingering on the blanket.
This time, it's my stomach that lurches with some kind of achy longing that’s so strong I almost growl through my gritted teeth.
Why does he have to smell so good? Why did he have to pick a fragrance that wires my nostrils to my dick and makes my heart go all stupid?
Above all, why does he have to be so freaking perfect?