Chapter 18
Vance
Every minute felt like an hour.
I'd cleaned the kitchen twice, reorganized the bookshelf, and taken apart the coffee maker before putting it back together. Nothing helped. Nothing made the clock move faster or the knot in my stomach loosen.
What if he didn't come back?
The thought kept circling, no matter how many times I pushed it away. What if his parents said the right things, offered the right incentives, reminded him of everything he'd be giving up by staying with me?
I was standing at the window, staring at the parking lot without seeing it, when I heard the key in the lock.
Relief flooded through me so fast I had to grab the windowsill.
Then Tobias was through the door, and I crossed the room to him as he crashed into me, arms around my neck, his face buried against my shoulder.
He was shaking. Not just trembling—really shaking, like he was coming apart at the seams.
"Talk to me," I said.
He pulled back enough to look at me. His eyes were red. He'd been crying.
"I told them." His voice was hoarse. "About being gay. About Elizabeth. Everything."
"And?"
"My mom cried a lot. She kept apologizing for not seeing it, for not making it easier to talk to her." He took a shaky breath. "But my dad—he just sat there. Silent. And then he exploded."
My stomach dropped. "About you being gay?"
"About disappearing. About not calling. About what I put them through." He laughed, but it sounded broken. "He said they thought I was dead. That every time the phone rang, he braced himself for the police telling him they'd found a body. He was so angry, Vance. I've never seen him like that."
I pulled him closer. Held on.
"He said I ran away like a child. That I didn't think about what it would do to them." Tobias's voice cracked. "And he's right. I didn't."
"What about... the gay thing?"
"That came after the yelling. When he finally stopped, he just said, 'So you ran because you're gay' like he was trying to make sense of it.
" Tobias pulled back, met my eyes. "He said he doesn't understand it.
That he needs time. But he also said I'm his son.
That nothing I could have told him would have been worse than not knowing if I was alive. "
"That's something."
"Is it?" His voice cracked. "He could barely look at me afterward. I don't think he knows how to handle any of it—the gay thing, or the fact that I kept it from them for so long."
"But he didn't reject you."
"No." Tobias wiped his eyes. "He didn't reject me."
I cupped his face in my hands. "You did it. You told them."
"I did." A fragile smile. "It wasn't what I expected. It wasn't some beautiful acceptance moment. But they know now. They know who I am."
"That's everything."
"It doesn't feel complete." He leaned into my touch. "It feels like the start of something really difficult."
"Beginnings usually are."
We settled on the couch, Tobias curled against my side, filling in the details.
How his mother had held him while she cried. How his father had paced, yelled, and then gone silent at the window. The awkward goodbye—a handshake instead of a hug, his father's voice cracking when he said, "Don't ever disappear like that again."
"Tristan thinks he'll come around," Tobias said. "That the anger was really fear, and once he processes everything, he'll be fine."
"What do you think?"
"I think my father has never had to accept anything outside his worldview." He shrugged. "I don't know if he can change. But at least now he has the chance to try."
I pressed a kiss to his hair.
"I told them about you," he said.
I froze.
"Not your name. Not where we are. Just that I've been staying with someone who helped me. Someone I care about." He tilted his head to look at me. "My mom wants to meet you. Someday."
"Your mom wants to meet me."
"When I'm ready. When we're ready." He studied my face. "Is that okay?"
I thought about it. Meeting his family. Being scrutinized by the Langfords, measured by whatever criteria wealthy Manhattan families used to judge security guards from nowhere.
"Yeah," I said. "It's okay."
He smiled and kissed me softly.
Then his expression shifted, growing more serious.
"You never talk about your family," he said.
The words landed heavily in my chest. I knew this was coming. Knew that someday he'd ask, and I'd have to decide how much to reveal.
"Nothing to talk about."
"Vance..."
"Foster care." The words came out flat. Practiced. "Aged out at eighteen. Joined the Army. End of story."
"That's not the end." His hand found mine. "You know everything about me. Every shameful part. The therapy. Elizabeth. All of it."
"That's different."
"Why?"
I looked away, unable to meet his eyes and say what I needed to say.
"Because your story has a family at the end. Mine doesn't."
Silence. His fingers tightened around mine.
"Tell me," he said softly. "Please."
The words resisted.
I'd spent years burying this. Building walls around it. Pretending it didn't exist except in the nightmares that still woke me at 3 AM, sweat-soaked and gasping.
But Tobias had just walked back into his parents' lives and revealed who he really was. He'd faced his biggest fear and come out the other side.
I owed him the same.
"Third tour," I said. "Afghanistan."
He went still beside me, listening.
"An IED hit our convoy. Middle of nowhere. Just sand and rocks and heat so thick you could choke on it."
I could see it. I always saw it when I closed my eyes: the flash of light, the sound—a roar that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The vehicle in front of mine lifted off the ground like it weighed nothing.
"Three men in my squad. Jenkins. Rodriguez. Callahan." Their names felt strange in my mouth; it had been years since I'd said them aloud. "I was supposed to keep them safe."
"Vance..."
"I see their faces." My voice turned ragged. "Every time I close my eyes, every time I let my guard down, they're there. Asking why I'm still alive and they're not."
I felt his hand on my face, turning me to look at him. His eyes were wet.
"It wasn't your fault," he said.
"I know that. Logically, I know it was a bomb. Random. Nothing I could have done." I shook my head. "But I was their sergeant. I was supposed to protect them. And I couldn't."
"You saved me."
"That's not the same."
"It's not." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "But it matters. You matter."
"I don't know how to believe that."
"Then let me believe it for both of us." He leaned closer, pressed his forehead to mine. "Until you can."
The tears came before I could stop them.
I hadn't cried in years. Hadn't allowed myself. Crying was weakness, vulnerability, everything I'd trained myself to bury. But with Tobias's hands on my face and his eyes holding mine, the walls just collapsed.
"Hey." His thumbs wiped my cheeks. "Hey. I've got you."
"I don't do this." The words came out ragged. "I don't fall apart. I don't let people see—"
"Shhh." He kissed my forehead. "You don't have to be strong right now. Not with me."
"I don't know how to be anything else."
"Then let me show you."
He kissed me, soft at first, barely a brush of lips, then deeper, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands fisting in my hair. He kissed me like he was trying to reach something inside me that words couldn't touch.
I let him.
That was the thing. I let him; I stopped fighting, stopped holding back, stopped trying to be in charge.
He pushed me back against the couch cushions, straddled my hips, his weight settling over me. I could feel him already half-hard through his jeans. When he ground down, the friction made us both groan.
"Let me take care of you," he said against my mouth. "Please. Let me do this."
I couldn't speak; I just nodded.
He undressed me like I was something precious.
He unbuttoned my shirt slowly, pushing it off my shoulders, letting his fingers trail over every inch of skin he uncovered. When he found the shrapnel scar below my ribs, he bent down and traced it with his tongue—a long, slow lick that made my hips jerk.
"You're still here," he murmured against my skin. "You survived."
He moved to the scar on my shoulder, kissing it softly, sucking gently until I shuddered. Then he traveled lower, down my chest, pausing to circle one nipple with his tongue.
"Fuck." I arched into him. "Tobias—"
"Shh. Let me."
He continued down my stomach, pressing wet kisses to every ridge of muscle. My abs tensed under his mouth. When he reached my belt, he looked up at me—eyes dark, lips swollen—and waited.
"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes."
He undid my belt, pulled down my zipper, and hooked his fingers in my waistband, dragging my pants and boxers down in one motion.
My cock sprang free, already hard and leaking. He wrapped his hand around the base and looked at me for a moment, his expression filled with hunger and reverence, making my chest ache.
"I've wanted this for so long," he said. "Wanted you."
"You have me." My voice came out rough. "All of me."
He stroked me once, root to tip, and I groaned. "I know. And I'm going to make sure you know it too."
Then his mouth was on me.
He started with his tongue—licking up the underside, swirling around the head, dipping into the slit to taste the precum. I grabbed the couch cushions, forcing myself not to thrust into the wet heat of his mouth.
He took me deeper, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, his head bobbing in a steady rhythm. He'd learned what I liked—the way I couldn't handle it when he hummed around me, the way a hand on my balls drove me wild. He used every trick he knew, working me until I was shaking.
"Fuck—Tobias—" I fisted my hand in his hair. "I'm gonna come if you don't stop."
He pulled off with a wet pop, kissed my hip and stomach, and worked his way back up my body until we were face to face.
"Good." He ground his hips against me, and I realized he was still fully dressed while I was naked beneath him. "Because I want you inside me when you come."
He stripped off his shirt first.
I'd seen his body before—learned every inch of it over the past weeks. But watching him undress for me, the deliberate way he peeled off each layer, still made my mouth go dry.
He stood to shuck off his jeans. His cock jutted out, hard and flushed, and I reached for him without thinking.
"No." He caught my wrist and pinned it back against the cushion. "Tonight you don't do anything. You just feel."
"Tobias—"
"I mean it." He straddled me again, both of us naked now, our cocks brushing together. The friction made me hiss. "You've spent your whole life taking care of everyone else. Let me take care of you."
He reached for the lube on the side table—when had he put that there?—and slicked up his fingers.
"Watch me," he said.
He reached behind himself. I couldn't see what his fingers were doing, but I could see the effect—the way his breath caught, the way his cock twitched, the way his eyes went half-lidded as he opened himself.
"Does it feel good?" The words came out rougher than I intended.
"Yeah." He added a second finger, and his head fell back. "God, yeah. I'm thinking about you—about how you're going to feel inside me—"
"Christ." I gripped his thighs. "You're going to kill me."
"That's the plan." A third finger now. He was panting, rocking back against his own hand, his cock dripping onto my stomach. "Want you so bad. Want to feel you for days."
"Then take me. I'm yours."
He pulled his fingers out, grabbed the lube again, and slicked up my cock—long, slow strokes that had me gritting my teeth.
Then he positioned himself over me, notching the head of my cock against his entrance.
And sank down.
The heat of him was overwhelming.
He took me slow—inch by inch, letting himself adjust, his hands braced on my chest. I watched his face, the pleasure and stretch crossing his features, his mouth falling open as he finally bottomed out.
"God." His voice was wrecked. "You feel so good. So fucking full."
"Move." My hands gripped his hips hard enough to bruise. "Please, Tobias. I need—"
He started to rock.
Slow at first, shallow movements that let him adjust to the angle. But then he shifted, found the spot that made him cry out, and everything changed.
He rode me harder. Faster. Lifted himself up until only the tip was inside, then slammed back down. The sound of skin on skin filled the apartment—wet, obscene, perfect.
"Vance—" He was moaning now, loud and unashamed. "Right there, fuck, right there—"
I thrust up to meet him, matching his rhythm. He was so tight around me, so hot, and the sounds he made were driving me insane. I reached for his cock, stroking him in time with our movements.
"Yes—" He threw his head back. "Don't stop, please, don't stop—"
"Look at me." I needed to see his eyes. "Look at me when you come."
He met my gaze. His eyes were dark, glazed with pleasure, but completely focused on me.
"I love you," he gasped. "I love you, Vance—"
"I love you too." The words tore out of me. "Come for me. Let me see you."
He shattered.
His whole body clenched as the orgasm ripped through him, his cock pulsing in my hand, spilling hot across my stomach and chest. He was beautiful—completely undone, completely mine.
The clench of his body dragged me over the edge. I came so hard my vision went white, emptying myself inside him, my hands locked on his hips as I jerked through the aftershocks.
Afterward, we lay tangled together on the narrow couch.
His head rested on my chest. My arms were around him. The apartment was quiet except for our ragged breathing.
"I don't deserve this," I said.
"Yes, you do."
"How do you know?"
He propped himself up and looked down at me. In the dim light, his face was soft. Certain.
"Because I chose you. And I don't make bad choices anymore."
A laugh escaped me. "That's a low bar."
"It's my bar." He kissed me gently. "And you clear it."
I pulled him back down and held him close.
We were both carrying damage, pieced together from broken parts. But somehow, together, we made something that worked.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't the life either of us had planned.
But it was ours.
And that was enough.