23. Let Go #2
“Good boy,” I whisper. Those two words—for once not used in a sexual context between us but for simple reassurance—make him exhale a sharp, broken sob.
His body tilts toward me, and his small shoulder digs into my bicep. With that clear signal given, I wrap an arm around him and hold him through his sobs. He hides his face in my chest, and I let him soak my shirt with his tears.
I rock him gently back and forth, and memories rush through my mind: the time he fell off his bike as a child, the time a classmate told him his drawing was ugly, the time Mason broke his gaming console.
He needed me then, and he needs me now. My heart aches with tenderness—with a love I can hardly explain.
He leans back a little and wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Are you ashamed of me?”
My stomach flips. “What?”
“Of being with me.”
I sigh, squeezing his hand. “Of course not.”
“Then why didn’t you want to kiss me?” His eyes are glassy with tears, his cheeks wet, and his nose red. If I could, I’d make it so he’d never have to cry again, but I don’t hold that power. All I can do is comfort him.
My jaw tightens. “It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s just… meeting Mason again made me remember you the way you used to be.”
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“I know, but you’re still so young.” I grimace, remembering the cashier at the clothing store. “To anyone who doesn’t know us… They won’t understand. They might think I’m taking advantage of you.”
“But you’re not,” he says, and his voice is stronger now, determined. “I’m the one who wanted this. I pretty much forced it to happen.”
“You didn’t do that.” I’m not without blame; we both made the choice to be together.
He grabs hold of my arm, eyes flashing fiercely. “Do you think I care about what other people think? Like Mason or Mom? I don’t. All I care about is you. Us.”
“You say that now,” I say, voice pained, “but what happens in ten years? I’ll be in my fifties, and you’ll still be a young man.”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like an issue to me.”
“I might get sick. I might…”
“You might die before me?” He shrugs again.
“You never know. I might get hit by a car tomorrow.” He grips my arm, looking at me with urgency written all over his face.
“All we have is now. And I want you. So don’t…
” He bites his lip. “Please don’t send me away again.
Please don’t decide what’s best for me without asking what I want. ”
My chest aches with the weight of his words—because he’s right.
Ever since we reunited, I’ve put up barriers between us that I thought would protect him, but they’ve done the opposite.
I’ve acted as if he can’t make his own decisions, as if I need to be his dad again, and in doing so, I’ve invalidated his choices every step of the way.
He’s trusted me, but I haven’t trusted him—not fully. Still…
“Mason thinks you should’ve picked someone else,” I say, voice rough with emotion. “Maybe he’s right.”
Oliver shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you, Logan. You,” he says, and I melt at his expression, at his shining eyes and hopeful smile.
He called me Logan—not “Daddy.” A calmness fills my chest at the implications of his carefully chosen words. Maybe he’s not too immature or inexperienced, after all. He’s young, but he understands. He knows.
“Do you want me too?” he asks, already leaning closer.
I cup his cheek, our lips inches away. “I do. God, I do, Oliver.”
He makes a soft, needy noise. “I want my kiss now, Daddy,” he says, and I smile and press my lips to his.
He lets out a happy sigh through his nose, opening his mouth. His soft, pillowy lips kiss my upper lip and then my lower one before they wander to my beard, my cheeks, and my neck, kissing and nipping to the point I have to chuckle.
I’d planned on making the kiss quick, but Oliver has other plans.
He climbs into my lap and grabs my shoulders, pulling me in for another, deeper kiss.
I groan when I feel his erection press against my thigh.
He’s always so needy, and I love him for it.
My hands travel down to circle his waist, but in that moment, someone knocks on his door.
“I’m starting dinner in five,” one of the twins says; I can’t tell who.
“What are you making?” Oliver asks.
“Are you fucking?”
“No,” Oliver replies with a laugh.
The twin opens the door. It’s the blond one, not Nico, so that means his name must be Luca, if I remember correctly. He eyes our entangled position on the bed with a raised brow and crosses his arms, leaning against the doorway.
“Um, this is Logan,” Oliver says, looking back at him from his position in my lap.
I clear my throat. “Nice to meet you.”
Luca waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, Nico said you were here. I’m making fettuccine Alfredo. There’s enough for you too if you want some.”
“He can help,” Oliver calls over his shoulder. “He’s a great cook.”
“Really? We’ll see about that.”
When Luca shuts the door, Oliver stays in my lap. I meet his eyes, my thumbs rubbing little circles on his hips.
“Do they know about us?”
“What—the twins?” He laughs. “Of course they do. And if they didn’t before, they sure do now.”
“Do they know… everything?”
“Well, they know you used to be my stepdad, and they know how we met.”
I frown. “And they don’t…?”
“They don’t what?” When I don’t immediately reply, Oliver jumps off my lap and takes my hand. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
I let him haul me off the bed and into the living room, still trying to wrap my head around what he just told me. The twins know about us—our past and our age gap—and yet there’s been no judgment, no disgust on their faces. In fact, they don’t seem to care at all.
Oliver keeps holding my hand even when we join the twins in the kitchen, and I don’t pull away. The nature of our relationship is complicated—no doubt about it—but maybe it doesn’t need to be as complicated as I thought.