Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Nicky
Liam is in my bed again. He wasn’t here when I first went to sleep, but at some point in the night I rolled over and he was there. Now, in the early predawn light, we are tangled together and it is wonderful.
The nights he went back to the other room were awful. He needed space, but my bed felt so cold and empty. I’m so very glad he is back in my arms where he belongs.
His body heat is seeping into me and I feel as if I’m glowing with contentment. He smells good and I want to breathe him in forever.
It is hard to believe there was a time when I thought I didn’t want this, when I assumed I wasn’t gay and didn’t think I liked Liam this way. It is so obvious now. My attraction to Liam is carved into my bones. I breathe it. Dream it. It is a fundamental part of who I am.
Soul mates sounds so very soppy, but I can’t think of a better way to describe what Liam is to me. He completes me, and nothing feels right when he is not here.
I can breathe easier when he is next to me. And have done so since that very first moment we met, when we were four years old. The first day of school. When Liam had marched up to me with impressively scuffed knees and said, “I’m Liam and I’m your best friend.”
Those words ignited something deep within me. Something that has never gone away, only grown. Grown into this.
Liam stirs slightly. He looks so peaceful. Feels so relaxed. His haunted look is hidden. Sleep has granted him a reprieve from his torment.
He moves again and brushes against me. Through the thin fabric of his boxers, I feel his erection. Just morning glory, I’m sure. Healthy biology. But my cock is rapidly filling in response.
Liam moves, rubbing himself against me. Seeking warm friction. He’s not awake, and I don’t want to disturb his peace.
His hips twist and his cock brushes over mine. A groan escapes my lips.
Liam’s eyes flutter open. He gives me a sleepy look before smiling. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I breathe reverently.
He slides even closer and his lips find mine. The first touch brings my cock to full hardness. I groan and kiss Liam back. There is tenderness in the kiss. Affection. Sleepy, gentle care.
But as we kiss and kiss, a clear hunger grows. Liam is kissing me with need and desire. His hips are moving. So slightly that I’m not sure he is aware of it. But he is rubbing himself against me and it is driving me wild.
My hand slides down between us. It slips into Liam’s boxers. My fingers curl around his cock and we both groan. He is silken and hot, and I love the feel of him against my palm.
I stroke him gently. His mouth goes slack and he forgets all about kissing me. I stroke and stroke. As if I have done this a thousand times before. He grows ever harder in my hand. I pull my head away a little to look at him, and the sight steals my breath away.
His eyes are closed, lashes dark against his pale skin. His cheeks are flushed pink. His lips are slightly parted and his jaw is slack. Liam lost in pleasure is more beautiful than any work of art.
His expression shifts, brows drawing together as euphoria flows over his features. I watch, transfixed, as he orgasms with a soft sigh. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
My hand falls still. Liam pants. His eyes open, still dark and hazy with lust. A far away look in them.
Shit.
“Was that alright?”
Was it too much, too soon? I didn’t ask, just pounced as soon as the poor man was barely awake.
Liam licks his lips. Grins. “Well, your technique was a little sloppy.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. Unexpected, but welcome. Liam chuckles too, eyes gleaming with that mischievous look I’ve missed so fucking much.
He glances down. At my straining erection and the damp spot clear against the light blue material of my boxers.
He licks his lips again. “Do you...”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to fill his hesitation with, “Want you to show me how it should be done?” But I stop myself just in time and blurt out an, “No, it’s okay,” instead.
I don’t want to ruin the mood by bringing up his knowledge, and by association, how he gained it. And I really don’t want to burden him with any sense of obligation. I don’t want him to feel like he has to do anything.
I’m so hard it hurts, but I won’t die. My burning arousal will fade.
Liam gives me a thoroughly disparaging look.
One that sends an icy trickle of guilt and shame racing through my overheated veins, while simultaneously slapping me with some good sense.
Liam doesn’t want to be babied. He doesn’t need to be mollycoddled.
Trauma hasn’t erased the fact that he is a grown man. With desires and needs.
I nod my head and roll onto my back. I fling the covers off of us and free my aching cock from my boxers.
Liam’s eyes widen. He stares down at my cock like he has never seen one. He looks at it like it is a bottle of water and he is very, very thirsty.
Any remaining blood I had elsewhere, all drains to my cock. I have never been so hard in my life.
Liam reaches out tentatively. Reverently. As if he is not sure he should touch something holy.
His fingers touch me softly. So softly I barely feel it. Nevertheless, a grunt reverberates in my throat, and my hips twitch.
Liam’s eyes widen even more. He is staring at my cock as if he is trying to memorize every detail. His hand slides up my length. Slowly, carefully, sensually.
I wonder if this is the first time he has ever touched a cock consensually? I push the thought away. I want this moment to be about us. Liam is far, far more than his past and his trauma.
He is my Liam, and he is touching me. Exploring me with an intense look of rapture on his face, as if he can’t quite believe he is getting to do this. Stroking me so gently I’m going to implode.
Outside, the sky is lightening. The room is filled with pink tones and half-light. Everything looks ethereal. As if this is a moment outside of time and space.
Liam looks up at me, eyes wide and dark enough to reflect the light of the rising sun. His features are shaped in lines of awe and bliss and a profound joy.
My hips lift off the bed, and I cum. Hard. So hard that it feels like falling.
Euphoria and ecstasy pull me apart and the only thing I am aware of are Liam’s eyes.
Idon’t remember falling back to sleep. But I wake up to the sound of Liam humming.
It’s such an ordinary sound, so beautifully mundane, that for a moment I think I’m dreaming. But no, he’s definitely there beside me, warm and solid and real, making soft musical sounds under his breath while he does something on his phone.
The late morning light filtering through the curtains catches the lighter strands in his hair, and I can see he’s scrolling through something, probably emails or news, the kind of normal morning routine that feels miraculous after weeks of careful distance and broken sleep.
He’s back in my bed. Actually back, not just seeking comfort during a nightmare or during the dark, lonely hours of the night, but choosing to be here. Choosing to share this space with me like he knows it’s where he belongs.
I must make some sound, contentment, maybe, or just the shift of waking up properly, because he turns to look at me with a smile that’s soft and unguarded in the morning light.
“Morning,” he says, and his voice has a teasing tone to it, intimate and private. He follows it with a wink and an, “Again.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes, even though my heart is so full it’s bursting.
I stretch, careful of my bandaged arm, and catch him watching the movement with careful concern rather than the uneasy trepidation that’s marked so many of our interactions lately. “Sleep well?”
“Better than I have in weeks.” He sets his phone aside and turns toward me properly, propping his head on his hand. “You?”
“Best sleep I’ve had in years.”
It’s true. Something about having him here beside me, relaxed and willing rather than desperate and lost, has quieted the constant low-level anxiety that’s been my companion since he went away.
Liam is back. He’s safe, he’s choosing to be here, and for the first time in too long, the world feels manageable.
“I was thinking,” Liam says, his fingers finding mine under the covers. “Breakfast. Proper breakfast. Eggs, toast, maybe even bacon if we have any.”
“Feeling domestic?” I tease, but I’m already calculating what’s in the fridge, already looking forward to the simple pleasure of cooking for him again.
“Feeling like I want to do normal things with you.” His thumb traces over my knuckles, such a small touch but loaded with meaning. “Like I want to remember what it feels like to just... be together without everything being complicated.”
I bring his hand to my lips and press a soft kiss to his palm. “I can definitely manage breakfast. Though you might have to help, this arm is going to be awkward for a few days.”
“Actually,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice now, a note of determination I haven’t heard in a long time. “I was thinking about that. About your appointment with the doctor today.”
I’d almost forgotten about that, the need to get proper stitches for the cut on my arm, to see Dr. Torrino and get professionally patched up. The kind of medical attention that comes with no questions asked and absolute discretion.
“What about it?”
“Can I come with you?”
The question catches me completely off guard. “You want to come to the doctor’s?”
“I want to learn how to take care of it properly. The dressing changes, what to watch for, how to help it heal.” He’s looking at me seriously now, no trace of the hesitation or fear that’s colored so many of our conversations. “I want to know how to take care of you.”
Something warm and overwhelming spreads through my chest. “Liam...”
“I know it’s your world, your people. And I know I’ve been... not great at handling that side of things. But this isn’t about the business or violence or any of that. This is about you being hurt and me wanting to help.”
The simple clarity of it takes my breath away. Not because he’s offering to engage with the darker parts of my life, but because he’s choosing to be a partner. Someone who takes care of me the same way I take care of him.
“You sure?” I ask, because I need to be certain this is what he wants rather than what he thinks he should want.
“I’m sure. Besides,” he grins, and it’s that wonderful expression I fell in love with when we were teenagers, “someone needs to make sure you’re not being a terrible patient.”
I laugh, surprised by how natural it feels. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent patient.”
“We’ll see about that.”
An hour later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table sharing scrambled eggs and toast, and the easy domesticity of it feels like a small miracle.
Liam cooked most of it, insisted on it, actually.
Claiming my injury gave him the right to take charge, and there’s something deeply satisfying about watching him move confidently around the kitchen.
He’s wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of joggers, his hair still messy from sleep, and he looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him since he came home.
Like he’s finally starting to believe that this is his space too, that he has the right to make breakfast and tease me about my tea-making skills and plan his day around taking care of me.
“Dr. Torrino is nice,” I tell him as I finish my eggs. “Bit gruff, very old-school, but he’s been patching up our family for decades. He won’t make you uncomfortable.”
“Good to know.” Liam sips his tea thoughtfully. “Will he think it’s weird that I want to learn the medical stuff?”
“He’ll probably be impressed. Most of the people he treats just want to be fixed and sent on their way. Having someone who actually cares about proper aftercare will make his day.”
It’s true. Dr. Torrino has complained more than once about patients who ignore his instructions, who treat their bodies like machines that can be repaired and forgotten about.
The idea of someone wanting to understand the healing process, to be actively involved in recovery, is bound to appeal to his medical sensibilities.
“And after?” Liam asks. “We could maybe get lunch somewhere? Nothing fancy, just...” He shrugs, looking almost shy. “I’d like to have a normal day out with you. No therapy appointments or probation officers, or dramatic incidents. Just us, being together.”
The request is so simple, so beautifully ordinary, that it makes my throat tight with emotion. When was the last time we did something just because we wanted to? When was the last time we made plans that weren’t based on crisis management or careful therapeutic goals?
“I’d love that,” I tell him honestly. “There’s a little Italian place near Dr. Torrino’s office. Nothing fancy, but the food is incredible, and they know to mind their own business.”
“Perfect.”
He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his, and the gesture is so natural, so unthinking, that it takes a moment to register how significant it is.
He’s not flinching from contact, not calculating whether touch is safe or welcome.
He’s just reaching for me because he wants to, because it feels right.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For wanting to take care of me. For choosing to be here. For making breakfast and planning normal days and just... for being you.”
His cheeks pink slightly, but he doesn’t look away. “Thank you for letting me. For not making me feel like I’m only someone who needs taking care of.”
We sit there for a moment, hands linked across the breakfast table, and I think about how far we’ve come from those first awful weeks when every interaction felt fraught with the possibility of damage.
How we’ve moved from desperate need and careful distance to something that feels increasingly like partnership.
It’s not perfect. We still have work to do, conversations to have, healing that needs to happen.
But sitting here in the morning light, planning a day that’s about nothing more complicated than medical appointments and lunch and being together because we want to be, it feels like we’re finally building something real.
Something that might actually last.
“Come on then,” Liam says, standing and starting to clear the breakfast dishes with ruthless efficiency. “Let’s go learn how to properly take care of you.”
The casual way he says it, like taking care of me is just another skill he wants to master, like loving me is something he can get better at with practice and attention, makes my heart do something complicated in my chest.
“Yeah,” I agree, watching him move around the kitchen with growing confidence and purpose. “Let’s do that.”
And for the first time in months, the future doesn’t feel like something we have to survive.
It feels like something we get to build together.