Chapter 9
MATTY
I’m a hot mess when Elias comes home from work. Cal absolutely refused any notion of sleep, so we’re sitting together in the living room singing nursery rhymes with his stuffed animals.
Five Little Monkeys, Baby Shark, and most recently, Wheels on the Bus.
I don’t actually mind, because Calum has the most precious smile, and he flaps his arms like this is the best rendition of the song he’s ever heard. It’s not, because my singing is atrocious, but he doesn’t care, and it makes my chest feel full and light when he starts singing with me.
Every time my hair would fall into my face, Cal would reach over and tug it, and while it wasn’t painful and there’s no malice there, I still braided it back so it would stop getting in the way.
Cal thought that was hilarious, had run to his room, and came back with this rainbow headband that had little ears and a unicorn horn.
He hasn’t let me take it off.
That’s exactly what Elias sees when he opens the front door, mouth open in a greeting as he spots us.
The shock is temporary, though, quickly replaced with that sweet, dimpled smile that makes my heart jump into my throat.
“Aren’t the two of you just adorable?” Elias steps around the loveseat and plops into it.
Cal looks up and claps his hands. “Daddy shark!” He jumps to his feet all long, clumsy legs and no coordination, clamoring around the table to hop into Elias’ lap.
The pure joy on Elias’ face can’t be rivaled as he wraps his arms around his son. “Missed you, buddy.”
Cal shimmies himself until his legs are around Elias’ middle, arms looped around his neck, and after a quick round of rambles, he yawns and buries his face in his dad’s shirt.
It’s impossible not to smile at how cute they are.
Elias looks at me over Cal’s head and mouths, “Thank you,” which he then punctuates by leaning over and tugging lightly on my braid.
I roll my eyes but smile all the same.
After a minute, he stands, Cal quiet and cradled in his arms. “He was holding out for me to come home. I’m going to put him in bed.”
“When you come back,” I say before he can get far. “Can you show me how to work the washer? We made a mess of my shirt at dinner, and uh, I realize I’m out of clothes.”
He blinks, straight-faced, and then a warm, humored expression takes over. “I have settings locked because Cal likes to play with the knob. Yeah, I’ll show you. In the meantime, grab a shirt from my room if you’re cold. First set of drawers, second from the top.”
With that, he disappears into Cal’s room, and I let out a breath as heat fills my chest and expands out to my limbs.
It’s been too easy to settle into a domestic routine, one that makes us all comfortable. Whereas going into Elias’ room used to feel like pushing the bounds of his privacy, it now feels like an extension of my own.
Elias’ t-shirts are form fitting on him, which means they’re a little baggy on me.
Long, too, hanging just below my ass. The one I grab is a plain, dark gray, and made of a super soft cotton that has me pulling the collar up over my nose.
It smells a lot like Elias’ body spray with an extra citrus hint.
Should smelling him turn me on? Should seeing the shirts that don’t quite fit me that I know hug him so well turn me on even more?
I’ve always been a sucker for a man that can effortlessly move me around, and remembering how he hoisted me into his arms that night while we danced in the living room … Yeah, that does it for me.
I shudder and glide my hand down my body, taking a brief moment to appreciate my own touch, and then put a lid on it before anything gets out of hand. No masturbating in my housemate’s clothes.
Feeble lines as they may be, they’re still lines.
When I go back to the couch and Elias hasn’t returned, I kick my pants off so it’s just Elias’ t-shirt and my boxers, and settle onto the couch with my legs tucked in and toss the throw blanket I’ve been using over my lap.
Just in case Cal keeps him up.
A soft voice calling out to me sharpens the fuzzy edges of my brain, sleep receding just as quickly as it came on. I look up and see Elias watching me with a reverent intentness.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “Cal wanted cuddles.”
I shake my head, banishing the last tendrils of sleep. “It’s no problem. Thanks for the shirt.”
His eyes leave my face to travel down my body, taking in his tee and how it rides up my hips ever so slightly, the blanket having half fallen to the floor.
“Looks good on you,” he says, voice forming a rumble that makes me shiver. “You seem cozy. How about I start your clothes and show you how it works tomorrow?”
“Aren’t you a gentleman?”
His laugh is rich and warm. “Considering I’m about to keep you up with twenty questions, and the fact that my son dressed you up like one of his stuffies, I owe you one.”
Maybe I should argue, but I am perfectly comfortable and don’t have much of a drive to move.
He disappears into the laundry room, comes back with an empty basket and collects my clothes from the corner I’ve kept them in, and disappears again.
The low tumble of the washing machine starts up, and then he’s back, flopping onto the couch unceremoniously.
“Oh, work wiped you out, didn’t it?”
He grunts, arm thrown over his face and legs bent uncomfortably looking to accommodate my presence on the couch. His shoes and hoodie were ditched at the door, sweats dropped somewhere between here and Cal’s room so he’s just in his boxer briefs and long-sleeved undershirt.
“So much. My legs are sore.”
Without giving it too much thought, I reach over and straighten the leg he has bent toward the back of the couch and draw it into my lap.
Then, I kick his other foot with my own and guide it to my lap too.
As soon as I dig my thumbs into his calves, Elias moans out like something out of a porn movie.
“How does something feel so good and hurt so much at the same time?”
A chuckle passes my lips as I work through the muscles and tendons of his calves and feet.
“You forget I know a thing or two about dance soreness. Do you stretch before you go onstage?”
He’s still groaning softly, arching his feet into my touch. “A little? Not always.”
When I hum, I catch him peeking at me from beneath his arm. “A good stretch routine will dull the ache at the end of a long day.”
“Maybe you can help me come up with something.” He props himself up on his elbows with an earnest little pout.
I press my lips together and dig into the arch of his foot. He almost kicks at me reflexively, and I grip his ankle tight in response.
“I want to make a stretching joke, but you’re already looking pretty flushed, Lee.”
“What? Something like ‘you stretch me, and I’ll stretch you’?”
“Mhm. Are you good at stretching, Lee?”
His brows furrow. “Are we talking about dance stretches or is this a sex question?”
“Neither. I was teasing you.”
We sit in silence for a moment, my fingers finding a rhythm on his calf that makes him exhale a shaky breath.
“Can I ask you questions about your transition?”
I tilt my head, resting an elbow on the back of the couch and pressing my temple to my fist. “Absolutely.”
“You’ve had top surgery, obviously. What about …?” His eyes drift to my crotch, and I choose this moment to be bold, to shift forward and open my thighs, and press his heel to the front of my boxers.
His toes flex, and I trap the moan that rises up with a bite to my tongue. There's bottom growth but nothing significant that would come with a surgery.
“Oh.” His face is practically a dark maroon, and I have to hold myself back from pushing further.
“I’m perfectly happy with what I’m packing downstairs,” I say, placing his foot back on top of my thigh. “The hormones are enough for me in that department.”
Elias gulps, and my eyes trail the lump in his throat as it travels down. “What words do you use? I mean, I read that everyone is different, so I was just curious. You know, in case it ever comes up …”
My face stretches into a wide grin. “You plan on talking about my dick?”
This time, he kicks me lightly in the thigh, and I tighten my grip on his ankle. “I have a dick and a hole and an asshole. All three are fair game during sex. Or foreplay.”
That’s what this feels like: an excruciatingly slow foreplay of introducing our bodies to each other.
I slide my hand up to his knee, kneading the sensitive muscle on the underside. He visibly tenses and then relaxes, letting his head hang back over the edge of the arm rest.
“I’m an idiot. Please ask me something. Anything to distract me and prevent me from getting a hard on.”
I’m tempted to tell him that it doesn’t bother me if he gets a little excited, but if he wants the subject changed, I can give him that small mercy.
“Well. I’ve always been kind of curious how you wound up a single dad.” I say the words as gently and nonchalant as possible, so that way if it isn’t something he wants to talk about, he has an easy out.
His fingers start a drum pattern on his stomach, toes curling and uncurling in my lap.
“It’s not a super interesting story honestly.
I was in a band in college. Bass. We got wasted after playing at a bar, and I’d had the most ridiculous crush on our vocalist. She was not into me.
At all. But she told me later that turning me down felt like kicking a puppy, so she offered me a kiss.
I guess I did a good job because we woke up the next morning with clear evidence that we’d been in each other’s pants. Multiple times.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “But she got pregnant. Long story short, the plan was to put the baby up for adoption. She had no support from her family, so I was there through the whole journey. Along the way … I fell in love with Cal. So I told her what I wanted. That me and my family would be happy to raise him, and if she ever wanted to be a part of his life, that’d be available to her. So far, she hasn’t, and that’s okay.”
If there’s one thing I’ve grown sure of over the last couple weeks, it’s that Elias is an amazing father. It hits me in the chest that much harder that he genuinely loves being a dad.
“Would you ever want another child?”
He lifts his head, something deeper than the question at hand swirling in his dark eyes.
“I don't know. I think it'd depend on where Cal and I are in life when it comes up. And what my partner wants, you know?”
“I kind of wish I got to see you with a baby.”
We both smile at each other, the absolute preciousness at the thought so strong it's palpable.
“My Mom and sister have plenty of pictures,” he says, and his expression turns bashful. “Which you can totally ask to see at my sister's wedding in a few months.”
I’ve got both of my hands under his knees, and his rushed words have me digging my fingers into the meat of his thigh on impulse.
“I can what now?”
The veins in his neck pulse as he throws his head back over the armrest again, pressing both palms onto his closed eyes.
“Yeah so my sister kind of thinks we’re a thing. Is pretty damn insistent actually. She’s getting married on November fifteenth to her girlfriend, and she basically threatened to never leave my love life alone if I didn't bring you.”
This is the kind of situation that would have made Riley run for the hills. If someone had put two and two together that we were dating, he would have been stuck in the house sick to his stomach for days.
The difference here is Elias and I are very consciously not dating.
“Do you want to?” My voice is quiet, uncertain. “Bring me as your date or whatever.”
He groans a deep, guttural sound, sinking further down the couch and leaning more into my hands. My fingers inch up the backs of his thighs and dig in there.
“I don’t want to not bring you. Doesn’t that break like … all of our rules?”
I shrug. “It doesn’t have to. You could ask me as a friend.”
He lifts his head again, and I offer up a smile. “My sister would call our bullshit immediately. Let’s be honest with ourselves—I wear my feelings on my face, and every single person will know how much I like you.”
Ah, dammit. Why does he have to say things like that?
I squeeze his thighs and slide my hands higher—just a few inches—leaning forward so I’m half lying on top of his legs in my lap.
“Fuck it. Let’s lean into it, then.”
I take the initiative to yank him closer, partially so he’ll quit hiding, and his ass brushes the top of my thighs. He squeaks—honest to god squeaks—and stares at me with wild, wide eyes.
“Lean into it?”
“Yup.” I push on his legs, leveraging myself so I can get just a little closer to his face. “If she wants to insist that we’re a couple, then let’s be fucking coupley. On our own terms.”
Both of his hands go to his face, and I know that he says something because the words are there in the air but they don’t quite compute in my brain.
“Hey.” I grab hold of his wrist and tug. “It hasn’t been a problem because I put in a lot of effort with you, but it’s late and I’m tired. I need to see your mouth, Elias, or I can’t hear you very well.”
Slowly, he lowers his arms and uses his free one to prop himself up. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I forgot.”
My smile is tight, but I ease my own frustration by rubbing my thumb along the length of his thigh and relishing in the way he shivers.
“I know, and that’s my fault. I like you, too, and I’ve let you get away with too much.”
Guilt creeps into his features, and I release his wrist to thread my fingers through his. “I don’t expect most people to accommodate me, Lee. But I care about fostering a relationship with you, and I need that to be a two way street.”
“Yeah.” I see the word on his lips but don’t quite hear it. He clears his throat. “Let me try that again. You want to pretend to date me at my sister’s wedding? To … save me from embarrassing myself?”
When he puts it like that … I burst out laughing and bring our hands to my face, pressing them to my forehead.
“What makes you think I’d be able to hide it, Lee? I’m barely containing myself from kissing you right now.”
I need sleep. My honesty has no filter.
We need to breathe. I need space.
I take in a deep breath and straighten my back. Drop his hand. Ease his legs out of my lap.
It’s not enough distance.
I push to my feet and stretch my arms above my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elias tense, and when I look, his eyes are averted to his lap where his fists lay clenched.
The mild chill of the room makes my bare skin prickle, and it hits me that I’m standing in front of Elias in nothing but his shirt and a pair of underwear hidden by that shirt right after suggesting we pretend to do the very thing we’re both adamant we shouldn’t do.
“It’s one day,” I say, trying to control the breaths wreaking havoc on my lungs. “We can give in for one day.”
How much of me will he have by then?
How will I get any of it back?
I suck in an anxious breath.
Will I even want to?