Chapter 44
Tristan
After his fall, Dad finally agreed to hire an in-home nurse. Now that she’s started working part-time, I have a lot more freedom on my days off.
Dad really isn’t going into work anymore, and with the new nurse around, I don’t have to worry as much about being there with him all the time when I’m not at work.
Something has changed between the two of us since the day of Dad’s fall, since I went over to Nick’s place to apologize and ended up staying for dinner with his mother and daughter.
We aren’t in a relationship—I don’t think I’m ready for something like that—but we are more than fuck buddies.
I’m trying to learn to be okay with the ambiguity of this situation.
I mean, I never thought I would be twenty-eight and in what someone else might call a situationship.
But, then again, we’re both consenting adults and can do what we want with our time and our energy.
To be fair, I think that most relationships that fall under the category of “situationships” or “messy” tend to do so because they don’t have good communication.
My situation with Nick might not be perfectly defined or labeled, but it’s absolutely based on healthy and good communication. That’s all we do. It’s foundational to a BDSM exchange.
With this shift in our dynamic, and my acceptance of it, we’ve been spending more time together outside of work—and that time isn’t just spent fucking (though there’s lots of that, too).
Though I would still consider Chasten my closest friend in the city, and I make sure to continue developing that relationship and building others, Nick is quickly becoming someone I naturally want to be around.
On our days off, I’ll often go to his place with the intentions of hooking up, but also knowing that we’ll probably end up hanging out for a while together. Maybe grabbing a meal.
Now that I’ve met Abigail, Nick has more than once invited me to join him for school pickup or his family for dinner. I’ve politely declined those invites, or found excuses—not because I don’t want to join (a large part of me does), but because I’m worried about what that might make me feel.
Fucking is one thing. Family dinner is entirely another.
One day, when I’m at his place, about half an hour after he came in my mouth, I’m lying on his couch, a book open in my hands, and he’s in the kitchen, whistling to himself while he cooks.
The book is in my hands, but I’m not really reading. I snap it shut and prop myself up on my elbows.
“Nick?” I call.
A second later— “Yeah? What’s up?”
He comes from the kitchen, toweling off his hands.
“I was thinking about your invite to join you and your parents and Abbie for dinner tomorrow.”
Nick leans against the doorframe and nods, his posture relaxed.
I’m briefly distracted by how fucking gorgeous he is—hard to ignore considering how he’s only wearing an apron and a pair of boxer briefs right now. His light brown skin gleams in the soft light of his lamps, and his muscles bulge attractively as he folds his arms.
“What were you thinking?” His arms might suggest defensiveness, but his tone, his expression, betray only curiosity, so I continue.
“Like, we’re having great sex, and we hang out all the time. I’ve met your mom and your daughter. We go out for meals, sometimes for drinks, and—again—we’re regularly having sex.” I squint at him. “Just checking, did we accidentally start dating?”
Nick bites his lips, as if he’s a little amused by my comment. “Is that something you can accidentally do?”
“I don’t know,” I muse. “Is a relationship defined by its label, or by its actions?”
He nods as if asking permission to cross the room, and I sit up, making space for him on the couch. He crosses over and sits beside me. I feel his warmth.
“I think,” he begins, his voice slow and contemplative, “it can depend on what you’re comfortable with. What makes you feel safer? If this were defined by a label, or by its actions?”
I frown, thinking.
“I think they’re inseparable, in ways. We might not say we’re dating, but we’re doing a bunch of the things people do when they are dating.
Like, if you asked someone, ‘How do you know you’re dating this person?
’ they would point to those things as the evidence that they’re dating.
Therefore, do these things mean we’re dating without realizing it, or can they only act as evidence for a dating relationship if that relationship has already been labeled? Am I rambling?”
Nick’s brows are furrowed—he seems partly amused and partly baffled, but he handles it well. “Nurse and then firefighter—did you ever consider becoming a lawyer?”
“Never.”
“Too bad. I think these are good questions, but I’m also going to challenge the premise of your argument a little bit.”
I sit up straighter. “Ooh. Go for it.”
“Your argument assumes that a relationship needs to be defined. And it also operates under the assumption that ‘dating’ can be defined as one thing or clearly broken down into separate components. What if we examine the history of dating, or of courting? Who made these arbitrary rules we have to follow in relationships? What prejudices or harmful beliefs are they rooted in?”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” I say with a sigh.
“Oh, babe, there’s a lot more where this came from.”
“Good. Keep going.”
He’s picking up momentum now. “I think the idea of ‘dating’ as we currently understand it is inherently heteronormative, and profoundly impacted by patriarchy and misogyny.”
“I think you managed to use all those buzzwords correctly. Have you ever thought about becoming a journalist? They could use some pointers.”
He grins. “Like you and law school, a missed opportunity. I think asking those questions is completely valid, but I think we can also challenge ourselves. Do we need to ask those questions? Do we need to interrogate ourselves that way, or would we only do that because we think we have to stick to some pre-defined heteronormative rule?”
He holds up a hand. “Now, if you genuinely do want to think about all those things, and really get into the definitions of what we are and aren’t, I’m all here for it.
You know I love a boundary, and I think we both have to be completely comfortable in what we’re doing.
So if that’s what you need, let me know.
But I wanted to assure you that if you’re worried at all about me being confused, or me blindsiding you or deceiving you, and justifying it because we’re not labeled as anything, I promise I won’t do that. ”
I nod slowly. He managed to cut right to the heart of my worries in a way even I couldn’t.
I don’t think I consciously realized that there is a part of me that’s been worried Nick might want someone, or something, else.
I have no problems with ethical non-monogamy, and maybe that is even something I’d explore someday with a partner.
But, for some reason, the thought of Nick being with someone else right now makes me deeply uncomfortable.
“I think…I think that might’ve been something I was worried about,” I admit. “I don’t want you to think of it as jealousy, or possessiveness, because it’s not that—”
“I know,” he says softly.
I take a deep breath. “I know we said at the start of this that neither of us had plans to be with anyone else. Has… has that changed for you?”
“Not at all. Did something make you think that?”
“I guess just my own insecurities. And I don’t want to punish you for those.”
He tilts his head. “And I appreciate that.”
“It’s just…. Am I asking too much of you by asking you to not be with others, without being open to the idea of a relationship?”
He leans in and kisses me gently on the lips.
“Tristan, you are not forcing me to do—or not to do—anything. Like I told you then, you’re the only person I’m interested in sleeping with right now.
And you’re my friend. I value both of those things.
We have a great sexual connection and a great emotional connection.
I can, and am willing to, hold those as separate things.
We don’t need to define ourselves as dating, but also, not defining ourselves doesn’t mean things have to change, or will change.
We’re good. I see no need to change that. ”
I let out a small breath. Whatever anxiety spiral I was going through, he’s guided me slowly out of it.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I think you just talked me off an emotional ledge.”
He kisses me again, lingering a bit this time.
“I’ll always do that,” he whispers against my lips. “I just think I’m the luckiest guy because I get to be here for any of these moments.”
And there go some of those butterflies in my stomach, butterflies that make me wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more that I want here.
“How’s cooking going?” I ask, squirming a bit on the couch as his hand begins to skate up my thigh.
He punctuates his words with hungry kisses on my neck.
“Food…”
Kiss.
“Is…”
Kiss.
“All…”
Kiss.
“Packed…”
Kiss.
“Up…”
Kiss.
His hand reaches my crotch, palming me through my jeans.
“So,” he murmurs, kissing the tender skin beneath my ear, “I suddenly find myself having some time on my hands.”
“What are—” I gasp as his hand squeezes, tightening around my balls. I try again. “What do you want to do with that free time?”
He kisses his way up to my ear, where he whispers, “Make you cum.”
“Well, shit. What are you waiting for?”