Kyle #2
I hook my foot around both of his, pulling them toward me and clamping my calves around them so they’re locked in the warmth. Max sighs contentedly, a shiver running through him as he scoots closer.
“I don’t think we’ve slept in a bed together since we were, like, fourteen,” he says with a soft laugh.
“Around the time we started getting morning wood, yeah,” I grin. “Too many close calls.”
“I guess that’s not an issue anymore, huh?”
I snort. “I guess not.”
Max wiggles his toes against my calf, and a strong gust of wind outside rattles the windowpane. I can see the glint of his eyes in the gray moonlight that’s filtering through my curtains, his gaze half-lidded, studying my face.
I move closer until our knees are touching and I’m sure I’m transferring some of my heat to him.
“Do you remember how drafty our apartment on James Street was?” he chuckles. “I used to stuff newspaper around the gaps in the windows to keep the chill out. I slept in socks for three years.”
“God, that place was a dump,” I agree, the memory twisting in my gut. “The radiators barely worked.”
Max sighs. “I think that was our justification for drinking so much fucking rum that one winter.”
I breathe a laugh, hyper aware of Max’s slowly thawing feet squished between my legs and his hand resting on the mattress between us.
“I kind of miss it,” I admit before I can really process the thought.
Still, the confession has been on the tip of my tongue for weeks now, threatening to spill out every time Max makes one of the meals he used to cook for us back in the old apartment, or I hear his keys jangling in the door and forget that they’re only spares, or I instinctively get two beers out of the fridge.
“This place is so much better, though,” Max says quietly. “You have insulation, for starters.”
“I mean I miss living together,” I say. “Not the drafts, moron.”
It sounds a little ridiculous when I say it out loud; we still spend almost every day together, after all. Max spends Christmas with my family, for fuck’s sake. How can I possibly still miss him?
Max shifts close enough that his fingers graze the fabric of the thin t-shirt I’m wearing to sleep in, and his feet slip through my calves so our legs are tangled together.
“Me too,” he says after a beat, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining the slight tremor in his voice.
“My place feels way too quiet without you leaving your work boots in the middle of the hallway and arguing with the TV.”
“It felt wrong the second I moved into this place,” I say. “I kind of got used to it over time, but I’ve never really liked living alone.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shrug, even though Max probably can’t see it, the movement sending a dull ache through my arm. “I don’t know. I’d made such a thing about moving out. ”
“Fucking stubborn knucklehead,” he breathes. “I would have moved back in with you in a heartbeat.”
God, the possibility of sharing the same space again makes me feel almost dizzy.
“I was worried we were holding each other back,” I admit softly, not entirely sure why all of this is coming out right now, but too tired to keep it in.
“I never wanted to see an omega past the second or third date because hanging with you was always an option. Always the best option.”
Max is so quiet I’m worried that he’s fallen asleep, but when he speaks, he sounds wide awake. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, well,” I say.
“Has that changed?”
I chuckle so quietly it’s more of an amused puff of air. “No. Haven’t had a serious girlfriend since we moved out. You’re still the best option.”
Neither of us says anything for a long moment, and logically I know I should probably feel embarrassed by everything I’ve just said, but Max hasn’t moved away. His scent hasn’t taken on that burnt quality it gets when he’s awkward. His breathing is still deep and even, inches away from my cheek.
I lean our foreheads together, and Max loops his arm over my waist, drawing us close enough that our chests are nearly touching. I can feel his breath on my lips.
I wish my stupid arm wasn’t broken so I could wrap it around him and pull him close enough that I could bury my face in his hair and breathe him in.
I have to settle for twisting my good arm underneath me so I can rest it against his chest, the space over his heart the only bit of him that’s still warm.
“You smell so good,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep, whatever lingering barriers still standing between us crumbling in the safety of the lightless, closed off bedroom.
And I’m hit again by how wrong that should be—other alphas don’t smell good to each other.
They smell like competition and hostility.
But Max has never been that to me. Not when we were kids, not when we were teenagers full of hormones and confusion, not when we lived in each other’s pockets in our twenties. And not now. Definitely not now.
He just smells like Max. Like wild nights out and warm nights in and belly laughs. Like gentle hands holding me upright and a gruff voice telling me to look after myself.
My breath catches in my throat as his fingers curl against my back, his thumb rubbing in a slow, soothing circle. “Ky…”
It only takes a slight tilt of my head to connect our lips. It’s not a conscious decision, just the inevitable result of the slow pull that’s been building between us for weeks, maybe longer. When I pull back in surprise at myself, Max leans right back in.
It’s slow and deep, our lips sliding together with an easy familiarity that makes my mind go blank. His stubble is surprisingly soft against my jaw, and I let out a soft noise in the back of my throat, my good hand sliding under the front of his t-shirt so I can feel his bare skin under my palm.
When we finally pull apart, we rest our foreheads together, his breath fanning warmly against my lips. Neither of us says a word, but Max pulls the covers tighter around us both and wraps his arms around me, and for the first time in weeks, my eyes slip closed into a settled, dreamless sleep.