“Matt…” Oliver countered.
“The water’s boiling over.”
“Huh?” Oliver ran his hands down Matt’s back. Christ, he felt fucking good.
“The water on the stove. It’s boiling over.”
Oh shit. “Oh shit.” Oliver heard the sizzle then. He jerked away from Matt, whipped around and rushed for the stove. Reaching out, he went to turn the stove off just as water splashed out and hit his hand. “Motherfucker,” he gritted out before flicking the burner off and pulling the pan off it. His hand stung. His hard-on was gone, and he thought maybe it was a good idea to crawl into the oven and not come out until Matt left. He probably would have if his hand didn’t burn so fucking bad.
“Let me see it,” Matt said coming up behind him. The skin was red and puffy and stung like a son of a bitch.
“I’m fine.” And he felt like an idiot. He’d wanted to bend Matt over the counter and Matt hadn’t been thinking anything of the sort.
“Let me see it, Ollie.” Matt grabbed his hand and Oliver let him. It was definitely irritated but no blisters. “It looks first degree. Let’s get some water on it.” He kept hold of Oliver’s wrist as though he couldn’t make it to the sink alone. From there he turned on the water and put Oliver’s hand under the fountain. The coolness immediately started to dull the pain.
Matt didn’t let go of him and Oliver didn’t pull back. There was obviously no reason why he couldn’t do this on his own, but he let Matt hold his hand there. Watched as the water ran over him, ran down his wrist, and cascaded over Matt’s hand as well.
Jesus, he was fucking ridiculous. What was it about this man and everything he did that made him come undone like this?
“I think it’s okay now.” Oliver tried to pull his hand back, but Matt wouldn’t let him.
“No. We need to keep it here for three to five minutes.”
So they did; they stood there together while their hands were under the cool water. Neither of them spoke, but he noticed Matt watching where their bodies met the same way he did.
“Do you have any aloe or anything?” Matt asked him after minutes ticked by.
“I do. It’s in the medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom. I can get it—”
“No.” Matt cut him off. “I got it. Keep your hand under the water. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” Oliver told him and then did as Matt said. He waited there without moving until Matt came back. When he did it was Matt who turned the water off. Matt who led him to the table where Oliver sat in a chair. Matt who kneeled in front of him and patted his hand dry with a towel. Matt who rubbed the cool aloe onto his skin.
Then he leaned forward and kissed Oliver’s wrist before pushing to his feet. “It’s not often I get to be the one cleaning up after your silly mistakes. I have to take advantage while I have the chance.”
Oliver’s chest felt like it began to swell. Oh, fuck. Jesus, he was so incredibly screwed because those simple words were a balm to his soul. He’d completely fooled himself if he’d ever thought he could keep himself from getting wrapped up in Matt. The man had entwined himself into Oliver’s heart years ago even if it was a mistake for Oliver.
“Looks like I won.” Matt shrugged at him, pulling Oliver out of his Matt-trance.
“Huh?”
“I get to make you dinner after all.” He reached out and brushed the breadcrumbs out of Oliver’s hair.
There was no reason he couldn’t continue to help Matt cook, but he didn’t move. He just sat there and let Matt do this for him, knowing he needed to.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They fell into a routine the next couple of days. Oliver wrote. Matt played and wrote. Playing regularly was only for fun, Matt told himself. Something to do to pass the time while he was there. The truth was, the closer he got to the shoot he’d agreed to do, the more he woke up at night in a cold sweat. The more weight piled onto his chest as he thought about the lights and the cameras and how fucking on display he felt during a shoot. Playing Oliver’s piano unwound some of the tension inside of him. It made the job feel like it got further away instead of closer.
Maybe it would continue to help. He would need to get another apartment when he got back to New York. Maybe he could get himself a piano and start playing and composing regularly and that would balance out his life, make the noose that had tied itself around his neck in New York loosen.
There were moments in the past couple of days where it didn’t feel as though anything was around his throat at all—moments he lost himself to the passion that made him nearly burst at the seams when he played and also spending his evenings cooking with Oliver. That was another part of their new routine. They made dinner together and ate with one another every night. It helped but then Oliver’s friendship had always helped. He’d always brought a calmness to Matt’s soul.