Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
KENNETH
I wake up to the smell of coffee and sweetness. Cinnamon, maybe?
"You're awake."
I turn to find Royce standing in the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. They're wearing soft lounge pants and one of my t-shirts, and their hair is adorably mussed. I’d ask when they took the shirt, but I find I don’t really care.
"Morning," I say, my voice rough with sleep.
"Morning” They cross to the bed, handing me one of the mugs. "You left your shirt here last week. I may have been sleeping in it since then. I only washed it yesterday so don’t worry about it smelling bad or anything."
The admission makes my chest warm. "Yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head, Little Menace." But they're smiling as they climb back into bed beside me, settling against the headboard. "I also made cinnamon rolls. The premade kind, not from scratch, because I'm not that ambitious before nine in the morning.”
"You made me breakfast again?”
"I made us breakfast. There's a difference. And last time I bought it. Don’t mix up the two. One requires a lot less effort.”
They take a sip of their coffee, watching me over the rim of their mug. I soak up every second of it since I can’t seem to get enough.
When they speak again, it takes me a second to follow along. “Do you need to leave already? I know we both have work later, but I thought maybe we could have a slow morning first."
"A slow morning sounds perfect." I take a drink of my coffee. "What time do you need to be at the office?"
"Not until eleven. We have a meeting with the marketing team about next week's promotions. What about you?" They set their mug on the nightstand and turn to face me more fully.
"Same, actually. Meeting at eleven with the lawyers to finalize some transfer paperwork." I mirror their position, both of us sitting cross-legged on the bed facing each other.
"So we have a few hours."
"We do."
There's heat in their gaze now, but also a contemplative look. "Kenny, about last night. It’s the second time—”
"What happens now?" I ask, voicing the question that's been hovering in the back of my mind since I woke up and stopping whatever speech they might have been about to give. "I mean, we crossed a line again. A good line, an amazing line, but still. Where do we go from here?"
They reach out, taking my free hand. "Where do you want to go?"
"Forward," I say without hesitation. "I want to keep doing this. Whatever this is. I want mornings like this, and late nights at the stadium, and figuring out how we fit together now that everything's changed."
"Everything has changed," they agree quietly. "My last day officially working with you on the team is next week. After that, there's no professional boundary keeping us apart. Unless, of course, you decide to stay on. The offer still stands.”
"Is that what you want? For there to be nothing keeping us apart?"
They squeeze my hand. "I want you. No more dancing around it, no more pretending this is just physical attraction or convenient timing. I want to build something with you to see where this goes.”
The words settle over me like a warmth I didn't know I was missing. "Real," I repeat. "Like relationship real? Partners real?"
"Exactly that real." They shift closer, their knee touching mine. "But I need you to know what that means. My life is complicated. There are parts of it I haven't fully explained yet, things that might make this harder than a normal relationship."
"Your other work. I know you have a lot of responsibilities away from the team too,” I say.
They nod. "That, and everything that comes with being a Bellport. The public events, the scrutiny, the expectations. And my own baggage. Therapy is helping, but I'm still working through things. Healing isn’t linear.”
"Royce." I set my coffee aside so I can cup their face with both hands. "I don't want easy. I want you. All of you, complications included. And yeah, we'll have to figure things out as we go, but that's what relationships are, right? Figuring it out together?"
"Together," they murmur, leaning into my touch. "I like the sound of that."
I pull them closer, kissing them softly. "So do I. What happens now is that we try. We build something. One day at a time."
"One day at a time," they agree. "Starting with cinnamon rolls and slow mornings."
I smile against their lips. "Best plan I've heard all week."
We do eventually make it to the kitchen, where the cinnamon rolls are cooling on the counter. Royce plates them while I refill our coffee, and we eat standing at the kitchen island, shoulders touching, stealing bites from each other's plates.
"These are really good," I say around a mouthful.
"They're from a can."
"Still good." I lean over to kiss their cheek, leaving a small smear of icing. "Everything's better when you're near.”
They laugh, wiping their face. "You're such a softie.”
"Only for you, Your Majesty."
The title makes them pause, their expression growing more serious. "Is that still okay? The whole dynamic we fell into?"
"More than okay." I turn to face them fully. "Royce, I meant what I said before. I like it when you take charge. When you call me good boy and tell me what to do. It makes me feel…"
I search for the right words.
"Safe. Cared for. Like I can let go of always having to be what others expect me to.”
"You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,” they say fiercely. "But I understand what you mean. And I like taking care of you. I like being in control when you need me to be."
"So we're doing this? Officially?"
"We're doing this." They set down their plate and move to stand between my legs where I'm perched on a bar stool. "You're mine, Kenneth Meyer. And I take care of what's mine."
The possessiveness in their voice sends a thrill through me.
"Yours," I agree. "All yours."
"You're burning it."
I look down at the pan in alarm, where the chicken is definitely more charred than golden. "Shit."
Royce appears at my elbow, gently taking the spatula from my hand. "Go sit down. Let me handle this."
"I was supposed to be cooking dinner for you."
"And that's very sweet." They flip the chicken, salvaging what they can. "But we both know cooking isn't your strong suit at the moment. There's no shame in that."
I slump onto one of the kitchen stools, watching them work. We're at my place tonight. Royce brought over ingredients for a proper meal after I admitted my fridge contained mostly takeout containers and protein shakes.
"I feel useless," I admit.
"You're not." They don't look up from the stove, but their voice is firm. "You're good at plenty of things. Right this minute, cooking isn’t one of them. Your mind is elsewhere.”
"Name one thing I'm good at."
Now they do look up, raising an eyebrow. "You're good at strategy. At seeing patterns other people miss. At making players feel valued and heard. At kissing me until I forget my own name. Should I continue?"
My face heats. "The last one doesn't count."
"It absolutely counts." They turn off the burner and move to stand in front of me, hands on my knees. “Little Menace, you don't have to be good at everything. You don't have to be perfect. That's the whole point of having a partner. We fill in each other's gaps."
"So you'll cook and I'll do what?”
"Do everything else?" They lean in, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. "Sounds fair to me."
We end up eating the slightly-burnt-but-still-edible chicken while sitting on my couch, plates balanced on our laps, some nature documentary playing in the background that neither of us is really watching.
"Tell me something,” Royce says during a lull in conversation. “A fact I don't know about you."
"Like what?"
"Anything. A memory, a dream, a time that made you who you are."
I think about it, chewing slowly. "When I was eight, I convinced my parents to let me have a dog. I'd wanted one forever, but they always said no. They claimed it was too messy, too much responsibility. Not fitting for a Meyer heir."
"But they said yes?"
"Eventually. I wore them down with a carefully crafted presentation about responsibility and commitment." I smile at the memory. "Complete with charts and a proposed budget."
"You made a presentation to get a dog?"
"I was a weird little kid." I shrug. "Anyway, they finally agreed. We got this golden retriever puppy, and I named him Rookie."
"Rookie," Royce repeats, their lips twitching. "Like baseball?"
"Like baseball. I loved that dog. Took care of him every day, trained him, played with him for hours. He slept in my bed every night." The memory shifts, turning bittersweet. "Then I went away to college. And when I came home for winter break, he was gone."
Royce's hand finds mine. "What happened?"
"My mother decided he was too much trouble. Too much shedding, too much noise. She rehomed him while I was gone and didn't tell me until I asked where he was."
I can still remember the sick feeling in my stomach when she'd said it so casually, like it didn't matter.
"She said I needed to focus on my studies anyway, that the dog was a distraction."
"Kenny, baby.” Royce's voice is soft but angry. "That's cruel."
"It was a long time ago."
"That doesn't make it less cruel." They set their plate aside and shift closer, pulling me against their chest. "I'm sorry that happened to you. You deserved better."
I let myself sink into their embrace, into the comfort they're offering. "It taught me not to get too attached to things. To be prepared for loss."
"Or it taught you that the people who were supposed to love you didn't know how to properly. That's on them, not you." Royce's fingers card through my hair, soothing.
We sit like that for a long time, the documentary forgotten, just holding each other. Eventually, they speak again.
“If we have our own place someday," they say quietly, "we're getting a dog. Maybe two."
"Our own place?" My heart skips at the casual way they say it, like it's inevitable.