FOURTEEN #2
“I’ll get him ready for bed, and then I’m all yours. Are you okay to wait?”
Sam’s words are nothing more than an intimate whisper.
I give their hands a light squeeze before I release them, leaning down to kiss his warm, freckled cheek.
“Take your time, Sammy. I’m not going anywhere.”
Not now. Not ever.
“Okay,” he says with a smile, before he walks away with an already-sleepy Eli.
The house is quiet, but the quiet is different here than the quiet that usually surrounds me in my apartment. It doesn’t come from being numerous floors above ground level, or from fully sound-proof windows. It’s not a fortress of quiet that presses in on me.
Here, it’s gentle, feather-light, broken easily by the rustling of leaves outside whenever the wind happens to blow a little harder, by the brief, soft whining of a little baby in the next room, by the soothing murmurs of the man I fucking breathe for.
Their life is everywhere around me, the low light spilling from a floor lamp, bathing the room, and showing me so much—Eli’s play corner with its lilac foam play mat, soft rattles, fabric books, and textured blocks sprinkled everywhere; a floral quilt draped casually over the arm of the couch next to cushions in a matching pattern, and a novel with a peeking bookmark; a stack of freshly-ironed shirts sitting on a chair, and waiting to be put away; little forest animals made of wood sitting on the shelves of a bookcase; framed pictures on the walls of Sam pushing a stroller with Eli sleeping inside in a light-blue onesie, of Eli in the arms of a huge red-headed man who’s gazing at the raven-haired man by his side, of Sam with a bundled-up newborn Eli, smiling down at him like he’s the center of his world.
I have no idea how long I look at those pictures, but soon, there are footsteps coming my way, and Sam’s sweet scent fills my lungs.
He wordlessly burrows into my arms, his hands slipping around me, and gripping my shirt, his face pressing against my throat.
“Everything alright with Eli?” I murmur against his soft, strawberry-scented curls.
“Mhm. All good. He’s fast asleep.”
“Good. And if he needs anything?” A twinge of anxiety twists my stomach at the idea of Eli needing something, all alone.
But Sam knows. Of course he knows as he pulls back and peers up at me, his palm sliding to my front to rub my chest.
“Trust me, if he needs anything, he’ll let us know. Very loudly.” He chuckles, the sound loosening the earlier knot and shooting warmth through my limbs.
“He will?” A grin stretches my lips.
“Oh yeah. He’s a really calm baby, but he’s got the lungs to scream the house down.” His smile grows tender as he goes on. “But you don’t need to worry. He’ll probably sleep through the night, or at least for several hours. And the baby monitor is right here.”
I cup his face, needing to touch this man whose every word keeps me grounded in a way nothing and no one ever has.
“Thank you for inviting me to stay with you two.” I don’t even try to hide my hoarse tone.
“Thank you for coming,” he breathes, pressing into my touch.
God, he makes my heart trip.
“What do you want to do now?”
“Wanna help me make dinner?” he suggests.
“If, by helping, you mean fetching you things, and you telling me exactly what I need to do so I don’t fuck anything up, then yes, I would love to help you make dinner.”
Fuck, his brown eyes are pure mischief when he looks at me.
“Well, Mr. Kingston, are you saying you don’t know what you’re doing in the kitchen?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr. Hartwell.”
“That’s okay. You know what you’re doing with plenty of other things.”
It would be an innocent enough comment if he wasn’t suddenly blushing hard.
“What kind of things?” I ask with a wolfish grin.
“Oh, um... you know, work-related things, like meetings, and—” His breath catches when my hand moves to knead his nape. “Striking deals with clients, and other office—” I press my thumb to his pulse, and a gasp slips out of him. “Stuff,” he finishes.
I hum in agreement, trying to subdue my smile, but it only gets worse as his neck gets warmer with his blush.
Except.
Except something shifts as he looks at me. Something softer and vulnerable bleeding in his gaze that roots me to the spot, unable to do anything but stay there, locked with that gaze.
“You also know what you’re doing with me,” he confesses in a hushed voice. “You know how to kiss me, how to touch me, how to make me feel wanted and beautiful and… more. So much more.”
My pulse hammers in my ears, the knowledge that this sweet creature feels this way with me enough to make me want to roar in goddamn triumph, to weep in terrible relief.
It’s a drop in the fucking ocean of what he deserves, but if he lets me, I will worship the ground he walks on until I no longer can.
His sigh feeds my starved soul, when I wrap him fully in my arms, and he melts into me.
And as we stand on his hardwood floor, in the quiet of his home, I feel worlds away from everything that has haunted me.
The burden feels lighter, like I’m not the only one carrying it anymore.
Like he’s helping me carry it by simply being close to me.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to be strong at all costs.
I feel like I can let myself rest, knowing that even if I crumble, he’ll be there to catch me, to cushion my fall, to hold me while I lay my head on his lap and close my eyes.
For the first time, I feel safe. With him.
So I tell him, in the simplest way I can.
“I love you,” I whisper into his hair.
He doesn’t startle at my words, but I know he’s heard them when his body presses tightly against mine, when his scent wraps around me like a soft blanket, when his breath grazes my skin and his voice trembles against my neck.
“I love you too.”
My eyes burn viciously, and my chest hurts so bad it feels like I’m dying.
Perhaps it was never made to fit this kind of happiness.
I want it anyway. All of it. All of him.
And I let Sam see it all when he pulls back to look up at me, his lovely, dark eyes shining, his lips tipped into that shy smile I can’t get enough of.
“Kiss me?” he breathes.
“Fuck yes,” I rasp, swooping down to fucking eat him.
His happy giggles spill on my tongue, and travel through my bloodstream.
His lips are red, and the freckles on his cheeks are more pronounced than ever by the time I let him go, and he leads me to his kitchen.
There are tiny flowers on the kitchen tablecloth, and on the thin, cream window curtains too.
I press my smile to his temple as he hands me the cherry tomatoes to wash them in the sink.
And make a mental note.