Chapter 9 Boone
Boone
The boys slowly leave the kitchen, lingering long enough that even Ash realizes it’s odd.
He shoots me a look in the middle of it, the boys disappearing in succession to give Ash a bit of space.
The kitchen empties until only Ash and I remain with the remnants of our meal scattered across the table.
Ash moves to the sink before I can tell him not to worry about it, his hands already submerged in soapy water.
I watch the muscles in his back shift beneath his thin shirt as he works.
This compulsion lives in him, the need to repay kindness with service, to balance every received morsel with sweat.
My son cultivated this in him, watered it daily, and let it grow until it twined around Ash's bones.
I take my place beside him with a dish towel, our bodies close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Our old rhythm returns as if the eight months of separation never existed. He passes me each dish in perfect order, heavy plates first, delicate glasses last. His fingers brush mine with each handoff, leaving trails of warm water on my skin.
When the blue mug appears in his hands, he pauses, turning it in the light as water drips from his fingertips.
Something in his face softens as he traces its rim.
He washes it with unusual care before passing it to me, our fingers lingering together longer than necessary.
I return it to its place on the second shelf where it has waited, gathering dust, since he left.
"The chili was really good," he says, handing me a bowl.
"You've had it before."
"I know. I used to think about it when Marcus and I would get takeout and eat in the car."
He says it casually, tossing it into the space between us like it means nothing, but I hear the full weight of what's underneath. My son couldn't manage a table and two chairs. He couldn't sit across from this man and share a meal face to face.
"You can have it whenever you want," I say. "I'll make it every night if you ask me to."
His nose scrunches up as he shakes his head. "You don't have to do that."
"I'm aware."
"You'd get sick of it."
"I've been making it every Sunday for twenty years. A few extra nights aren't going to be the thing that breaks me."
Ash smiles at that as he hands me the last plate.
I watch him drain the sink and then dry his hands on the front of his shirt.
I put the plate away and hang the towel on the oven handle.
He turns toward me, already shaping some polite exit, goodnight or thank you or I should probably get out of your way.
I don’t let him reach it. I kiss him while the word is still forming on his lips.
This one isn’t like the porch. The porch kiss was trembling and careful and new.
This one carries the weight of the whole evening as I cup the back of his head and tilt him up to me.
The little sound he makes when I guide him is quickly becoming my favorite thing about being alive.
His mouth parts beneath mine, his hands gripping my shirt at my chest, and I feel him stop thinking, his whole body softening against me.
His hands slide up to my shoulders as he goes up on his toes, pressing closer.
I solve the distance by wrapping my hands around his waist and lifting him onto the counter.
He gasps against my mouth, his legs parting for me to step between them.
His ankles lock behind me, and the heat of him pressed against me makes my hands tighten on his thighs.
"Boone, I want, can we—"
"Shh."
"I want you to—"
"I know what you want."
"Then why are you stopping?"
His hands find my belt, already fumbling with the latch.
Unlike last night, though, the softness of his spine has become rigid, his fingers seemingly moving on autopilot.
It takes me a beat too long to realize that he thinks this is the natural progression, rather than this is something he truly wants.
I catch his wrists and hold them against my chest. His expression transforms before me, first confusion clouding his features, then a flash of hurt darkening his eyes. Finally his face smooths into something carefully neutral, a mask he's perfected.
He looks past my shoulder at nothing, waiting for whatever comes next with the patient resignation of someone accustomed to navigating the sudden withdrawal of another's desire.
"You don't want me," he pushes out.
"Ash, I want you so much it's been keeping me up for two years." I bring his hands to my mouth and press my lips against his knuckles. "That is not what's happening right now."
"Then I don't understand why you stopped me." His legs are still wrapped around me and I can feel his pulse going fast against my fingertips where I'm holding his wrists. “That’s how this goes, I mean... that’s where this was going, right?”
I want to hear more of what he meant rather than the answer he’s giving me, but it’s exactly what I thought was the case. "Because not everything has to be sex, Dove."
The confusion on his face this time goes so much deeper. I run my thumb along the inside of his wrist, keeping the contact going so he understands that my hands are still on him even though his hands aren't on my belt.
"What do you mean?" He tilts his head to the side, searching my expression
"I mean I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you.
That's the whole thing. Sometimes it's going to lead somewhere.
Sometimes it's just this." I bring one hand up to his jaw as his eyes flutter half shut at the contact, his head tilting into my palm before he can stop it.
"Just me touching you because you're here and you're beautiful and that's reason enough. "
"But I—"
A small huff from me cuts him off. I know it’s a horrible idea constantly comparing what this is becoming to the son who couldn’t get it together, but I can’t help it.
"Marcus touched you when he wanted something from you, didn’t he?
” I get a small nod but it’s all I need.
“When he didn't want something, he didn't touch you at all.
So you learned that affection has a price tag on it and if you can't pay, it gets taken away.
" I keep my thumb moving on his jaw, my other hand on his wrist. "That's wrong, Dove. That's not how it works. Not here."
His fingers tighten around mine at the word. I don't know if it's the name or the sentence or both, but something in his grip changes, becoming less desperate and more anchored, like he's holding my hand instead of clinging to it.
"He used to get quiet if I said no," Ash mumbles as he drops his gaze to our joined hands instead of at my face.
"Not angry. Just quiet. He'd roll over and not talk to me until the next day, sometimes longer.
" His thumb traces my knuckle, back and forth, a self-soothing motion I don't think he knows he's doing.
"And I'd lie there knowing I should have just done it because it wasn't that hard and at least he'd still be talking to me in the morning. "
"That's done."
"I know, I just want you to understand—"
"I understand.”
“Respectfully, you don’t.” He cuts me off, his shoulders falling further.
My hand moves down to his neck, caressing the side as he leans toward me.
“Boone,” his eyes rise to meet mine. “I just wanted to be held and touched and loved, okay? He... he didn’t force me.
I did it because I needed him to touch me but that’s the only way he would and it always came with stipulations and I’m so tired of following rules and not knowing if my words will ruin everything.
” A tear slips down his cheek as he drops his gaze back to his lap.
I had no fucking clue.
Maybe in some part, but this was just a chance to indulge in our own desires before helping Ash move onto whatever he chose next.
But now? I want nothing more than to wrap this beautiful man up in my arms and never let him go.
Gently, I tilt his head back up so that he can see the sincerity in my face as I say these next words.
“Here's what's true in this house. Your speed is ours, not the other way around. Whether it’s to be touched or not, that’s your choice.
The only thing that changes is what we do with our hands.
No silence. No cold. No punishment. You wake up the next morning and the coffee is made and we will all still want you the exact same way we did the night before. "
He presses his forehead against my collarbone and his breathing goes ragged against my chest. It takes him a while to calm, his body sagging against mine further in small increments.
"Come to bed, Dove. You’ve had a long day and I suspect the boys are going to have several plans for you tomorrow.”
His entire face turns crimson as I step back and he slides off the counter.
Then, he walks to my bedroom and sits on the edge of my bed, waiting for me to follow him in.
Something about that, about him choosing this room over the guest room without being told, hits me harder than anything else that's happened tonight.
"I can sleep in the guest room," he starts, because he can't help himself. "If you want your space."
"I want you right here."
"You don't have to—"
"Ash. I only get you for two weeks. I intend to make use of every night."
Something gives way in his face, and then he reaches for me as I lie down beside him.
I pull him against my chest, his back to my front.
He takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine and pulls my arm tighter, adjusting me around himself, making sure there are no gaps between his body and mine.
"Boone?"
"Yeah."
"Nobody's ever told me that touching could just be touching. That it didn't have to go somewhere to count."
"It counts, Dove. Every time."