Chapter 17 #3
Luther settles first because Blake's leaning on him, and I guide them both down before Blake can pretend he doesn't need to sit.
Luther draws Blake against his chest, one hand spread over Blake's ribs with enough care that it's not restraint, only presence.
Blake's eyes lower, but he stays awake, his fingers finding Luther's wrist and holding there.
When I kneel beside them and touch Blake's cheek, he turns into my palm, and I whisper, "You're here," because after the day we've had, I need to say it out loud.
"I'm here," he answers.
Grayson climbs in on Blake's other side and slides an arm across both of them, his mouth brushing Blake's shoulder before he reaches for me.
I go where he pulls me, into the warm middle of them, and for a few seconds there's only the shifting of bodies finding familiar places.
Luther anchors. Grayson warms. Blake lets himself be held without turning it into debt.
Maceo remains near the curtains only long enough to close them.
Then Luther reaches for him, not with command this time, but with need.
"Mace," he says, voice low, and Maceo turns from the window.
His gaze moves over the bed, over Luther's hand held out to him, over Grayson already making room, over me watching him with my heart too full to hide it.
Blake's the one who makes it impossible for him to stay back. He lifts his hand from Luther's wrist and reaches across the space. "Come here, genius."
Maceo crosses the room and takes Blake's hand first, because Blake offered it.
Then Grayson catches his shirt and pulls him down with a soft sound that's half relief, half demand.
Maceo goes. He settles behind me, chest warm against my back, but Grayson reaches across my waist and drags one of Maceo's hands forward until it rests over the center of the pile, on Blake's hip and my stomach both.
"There," Grayson murmurs. "No edge."
Maceo's breath moves against the back of my neck. "No edge," he agrees.
The moment starts slow, the way it always does when the day has scraped us raw.
Luther is already stretched out against the headboard with Blake pulled tight against his chest. One of his big hands rests low over Blake’s ribs, thumb moving in slow circles like he’s counting every breath.
Blake’s eyes are half-closed, but I can still see the tension in his jaw.
He’s trying not to work, trying not to think about the tablet Maceo hid earlier, but his fingers keep twitching against Luther’s forearm.
Luther notices. He always does. He dips his head and murmurs something too low for me to catch, then presses his mouth to the side of Blake’s neck, right over his pulse. Blake exhales and finally lets his body go heavy.
Grayson is on Blake’s other side, already reaching out like he’s going to smooth someone’s hair or pull a blanket higher. He does it without thinking — the caretaker even when he’s exhausted. Luther catches his wrist before he can do anything else.
“Stop,” Luther says quietly. “You’re off tonight too.”
Grayson blinks, like he hadn’t realized he was doing it. For a second he looks almost guilty. Then Luther tugs him closer until Grayson’s head is resting against Blake’s shoulder instead of hovering over everyone. Grayson lets out a soft, surprised sound and stays there.
I’m in the middle of them all, warm skin and damp hair and the faint smell of eucalyptus still clinging to Blake from his bath.
Maceo is the only one not fully in yet. He’s sitting on the edge of the nest, back straight, one hand resting on the mattress like he’s still listening for something outside the room.
Luther reaches past me and catches the front of Maceo’s shirt, pulling him closer as well. His chest presses against my back as one of his arms slides around my waist, and I feel the exact moment he lets some of the day go. His forehead drops to the nape of my neck and stays there.
For a while, no one does much. We just breathe.
Blake’s fingers are still restless until Luther catches his hand and laces their fingers together, pinning it gently against his own chest. Grayson’s hand finds my hip and stays there, thumb stroking slow lines over the thin fabric of my shirt.
Maceo’s arm tightens around me every time I shift, like he’s making sure I’m still here.
I turn my head and find Grayson’s mouth. The kiss is unhurried, almost lazy. When I pull back, he looks softer than he has all day. I reach over him and run my fingers through Blake’s damp curls. Blake leans into the touch without opening his eyes.
Luther’s hand leaves Blake’s ribs and slides down to rest over my stomach instead. His palm is broad and steady. He doesn’t move it in any particular way. He just holds it there, like he’s keeping all of us in one place.
Maceo’s breathing has gone deep and even against my back. Every so often his fingers flex against my side, small, unconscious movements that say more than words. I reach back and cover his hand with mine.
No one is trying to fix anything. No one is trying to be useful. We’re just here, warm and tangled and heavy with the kind of tiredness that only comes after a long day of holding it together.
I match my breathing to the rise and fall of the bodies around me, Luther’s deep and slow, Blake’s lighter but finally steady, Grayson’s warm against my ear, and Maceo’s steady against my spine. The room is quiet except for that.