FOURTEEN
Kieran kicked off his shoes by the door and waited for a second longer than necessary, listening to the house settle around him.
The walk home replayed itself in fragments.
Rory’s voice, the way he’d peeled off from the group without making a thing of it, the quiet stretch of sidewalk where Kieran had told the truth, made things clear, and gotten back a single word.
Okay. A word that carried no weight and all of it simultaneously.
Rory, looking at him the way he always looked at him—with that steady, unhurried focus that either meant I see everything about you or I’m thinking about what to have for breakfast. Kieran still couldn’t tell.
He headed down the hall, tugged on a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt, and pretended the outfit choice was entirely about comfort and not about a lingering, pathetic hope that someone might see him in it.
He brushed his teeth, stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and told himself firmly that he was done for the night.
The knee thing under the table was just friendly. Rory walked him home because they were neighbors. The “okay” meant absolutely nothing. He wasn’t going to lie awake replaying every micro-moment like a lovesick idiot.
He was absolutely going to lie awake replaying every moment like a lovesick idiot.
That was when the knock came.
Quiet. But urgent.
Kieran froze, the toothbrush still damp in his hand. The dogs didn’t stir from their bed in the living room. The house stayed completely still. His pulse, on the other hand, hammered once, hard against his ribs, and kept going.
He walked to the entryway and opened the door.
Rory.
He was standing on the porch like he’d barely made it inside his own house before turning right back around.
His hair was still windblown from the walk, his breathing visibly uneven in the dim porch light.
His eyes locked on Kieran with the kind of sharp, consuming focus that precedes either a profound confession or a terrible decision.
Neither of them spoke.
Kieran’s grip tightened on the edge of the door until his knuckles turned white. Rory’s fists stayed buried deep in his pockets. The air between them in the doorway went pressurized, heavy and thick, the way it does right before a summer storm breaks.
Rory’s jaw worked. He pulled his fists from his pockets slowly, reluctantly, as if he were forcing himself to give up his last chance to walk away.
Kieran took a step back into the hallway.
Rory took a step forward.
The front door closed behind him, a soft, heavy click that sounded incredibly final.
They stood in the narrow entryway, close enough that Kieran could smell him—the cold night air, his warm skin, and the faint, clean trace of fabric softener.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavily charged.
Kieran could hear the rapid rush of his own breathing and hated how loud it sounded in the quiet house.
Rory’s gaze dropped, heavy and deliberate, to Kieran’s mouth.
Kieran stopped breathing altogether.
Rory reached out, his thumb grazing the line of Kieran’s jaw. It was barely there, a featherlight touch, a question asked with skin instead of words.
Kieran didn’t move away. He leaned into it, just a fraction.
Rory closed the remaining distance.
The kiss was immediate and desperate—no testing the waters, no easing in. Rory’s fingers slid sharply into Kieran’s hair, his other arm hooking around Kieran’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest.
Kieran made a low sound against Rory’s mouth, soft and wet. Rory tasted like nothing Kieran would ever be able to describe and everything he’d ever remember.
Rory broke away long enough to draw a ragged breath, his forehead resting against Kieran’s. “Tell me this is okay.”
“Yes,” Kieran breathed, his fingers clawing into Rory’s shoulders. “Fuck. Yes.”
Rory kissed him again.
The urgency was still there—in the iron grip of the arm locked around his waist, pulling him closer, as though the remaining inch of fabric between them was unbearable. But the kiss itself slowed, deepening, as if now that he had explicit permission, Rory wanted to memorize him.
Kieran gripped the front of Rory’s shirt, his knuckles digging into his sternum, steadying himself as the heat between them surged unmistakably. Their bodies lined up without instruction, without apology.
Kieran made a sound he didn’t recognize as his own. Rory smiled into the kiss, the low hum vibrating against his lips. Rory deepened it, pressing into Kieran more, crowding him back.
That was the thing that undid Kieran fastest—the way Rory didn’t rush it.
The kiss stayed deep but entirely controlled, Rory’s mouth moving like he was learning Kieran’s language instead of consuming him.
His grip on Kieran’s hip turned possessive, a wordless stay right here, and Kieran’s knees went entirely unreliable.
Kieran’s hands slid up Rory’s back, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging without meaning to. The solid heat radiated through the cotton, the unmistakable press of Rory’s body against his, and his brain supplied a useless, dizzying thought: This is actually happening.
“Oh,” Rory murmured against his mouth, the sound barely audible. “Yeah.”
The rough cadence of his voice shot straight through Kieran like voltage.
Rory shifted his stance, crowding him more fully against the entryway wall. One thigh nudged firmly between Kieran’s legs, and the hard contact sent a sharp, undeniable reaction through his body, immediate and thrilling all at once.
He gasped into Rory’s mouth. Rory felt it. Of course he did.
He pulled back to look at Kieran, his pupils completely blown, his mouth flushed, his chest rising and falling fast. His gaze dropped briefly down the length of Kieran’s body, then lifted again, dark with open, unashamed want.
“Jesus,” Rory said quietly, his voice rough.
Kieran laughed, a breathless, embarrassed, and absolutely unrepentant sound. “Don’t…don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re…pleased with yourself.”
Rory’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “I am.”
He leaned in again, kissing along Kieran’s jaw this time, taking his time.
His teeth grazed the hinge of Kieran’s jaw hard enough to make his spine go liquid.
Kieran’s head tipped back, the plaster wall cool against his overheated skin.
He was distantly aware that he was panting, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Rory’s palm slid from Kieran’s hip to his lower back, pressing flat beneath his shirt, fingers spreading wide, trying to cover as much skin as possible. Kieran’s entire body lit from the inside, his thoughts dissolving into pure static.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Rory murmured, his mouth still moving against the sensitive skin of Kieran’s throat.
Kieran swallowed hard, his hands anchoring in Rory’s hair. “I don’t.”
Rory exhaled against his skin, a shaky rush that told Kieran he’d been holding that breath all night long.
He kissed lower—over his collarbone, trailing along the neckline of Kieran’s T-shirt—then paused, his forehead dropping against Kieran’s shoulder.
The sudden stillness was intentional. A beat of raw restraint, giving Kieran room to change his mind.
Kieran didn’t.
His thumbs found the bare strip of skin where Rory’s shirt had ridden up, dragging them along the firm ridge of Rory’s hipbones. The older man shivered, a full-body tremor that traveled every point where they touched.
The shiver cracked open a primal part of Kieran. Hunger. Possessiveness. A fierce, reckless greed he hadn’t known he had in him.
Rory’s breath hitched. He pressed his mouth back to Kieran’s, kissing him harder now, less careful, and Kieran tasted the shift—the exact moment restraint thinned and want took over completely. The line between them dissolved. Neither of them pretended otherwise.
Rory’s palm slipped under the hem of Kieran’s shirt, callused against his bare stomach, and Kieran’s muscles contracted involuntarily at the contact. He let out a low, shuddering groan that Rory absorbed with his whole body.
Rory froze for half a second. Then he exhaled a quiet, breathless laugh against Kieran’s mouth and murmured, “Okay.”
His palm moved higher, dragging the fabric of the shirt up with it, exposing Kieran’s skin to the cool air of the hallway. Kieran arched into the touch without thinking, his body making decisions his brain had abandoned entirely.
“Shirt off,” Rory said, his voice dropping to gravel, already tugging at the hem.
Kieran lifted his arms, and Rory pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere into the dark hallway.
For a second, Rory stopped and looked at him, his eyes tracking across Kieran’s bare shoulders, down his chest, lingering with an intensity that made Kieran’s skin prickle.
Rory exhaled a ragged, unsteady breath.
Kieran’s face burned under the scrutiny. “You’ve already seen me shirtless at the beach.”
“Not like this.” Rory’s voice was low, thick. “Looking and touching are different things. I’ve been looking for a while, Kieran.”
Then he kissed him again, his palms skating up Kieran’s sides, his thumbs brushing his skin with a reverence that felt like a language Rory was finally being allowed to speak.
Kieran grabbed the hem of Rory’s shirt and yanked. “Your turn.”
Rory grinned against his lips, stepping back to pull the shirt off himself and fling it aside. The removal revealed the lean, defined muscle Kieran had only glimpsed before—shoulders broader than expected, a flat stomach, and a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
Kieran stared. He let himself stare.
“Like what you see?” Rory asked, his tone teasing, but his voice cracked on the very last word.
“Shut up,” Kieran muttered, and pulled him back in.