That was another reason for me to get away alone. Living with him was my personal hell. He was so caring and supportive, and he’d long since stopped spending the weekend at Finn’s house—or his own place downstairs, for that matter. He’d stopped making excuses. No more “You know what, I’ve been in your way long enough. I’ll give you some space.” He just…stayed. He was here because he wanted to be.
That said, those were undoubtedly the wrong reasons. I provided a distraction. In my home, he wasn’t alone with his grief. On the other hand, was that so bad? Did we have to recover on our own in order for it to be healthy? In which case…couldn’t there be something special about me? That he preferred staying with me rather than his own son who had two hundred guest rooms?
Fucking hell, I kept going back and forth—searching for proof that I was special to him, as if that would lead to anything. I already knew I was important to him. He loved me. He showed it every damn day. But it didn’t mean shit, and I should put it all to rest already.
After washing off, I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Reaching for a fresh towel, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and couldn’t help but wonder how Shan pictured the faceless stranger he’d been fucking for weeks now.
My body type didn’t stand out; I was fairly tall, I ate all right, I worked out all right, I had a busy job where I was on my feet a lot, so I looked…good. Age hadn’t stolen my abs yet. Nevertheless, I was nothing extraordinary. I shared a body type with millions of other men. In short, despite having run his fingers and lips all over my body, he couldn’t be picturing me.
In the darkness, I had no markings that gave away my identity either. My ink was one with my skin. He hadn’t brushed over my most recent wound. I’d been careful.
Wrapping the towel around my hips, I left the bathroom and was caught off guard to see Shan on the couch, his back to me. But he looked over at me as he heard me.
“I thought I was gonna have to drag you outta your room,” I said.
“Oh, no.” He smiled carefully. “I was assuming you’d be heading out again tonight, so I wanted to spend some time with you before you leave. But then I saw all the snacks…”
Yeah, and they looked damn good on the table. No three-course meal at a swanky Italian restaurant could keep me from stuffing my face with chips and soda tonight.
“Tonight, I have zero plans,” I told him. “Aside from planting my ass on that couch. And you’re joining me.” It felt ridiculously good to see the relief in his eyes. To the point where I immediately felt more awake. “Grab us some drinks—I want a regular Coke—and pop open the window. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I ducked into my room and my closet to grab a pair of briefs and some good old-fashioned flannel bottoms. I snatched up a white tee too, but I didn’t put it on yet. I wanted Shan to see if I could start dressing the wound with a simple, large Band-Aid at this point.
“Shan, do you mind giving me a doctor’s exam?” I joked and left the room again.
He exited the bathroom I’d just fogged up, which was unlike him. He usually went to the guest bath in the hallway—and he still showered downstairs most of the time. But more interesting was the look on his face. Like he’d been caught eavesdropping or something. Or he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. Oh fuck. The burner—the phone I texted him with—
“I apologize, Kellan. I certainly didn’t mean to pry.” He had hesitation and remorse written all over his face, and it abruptly pushed pause on my panic. If he’d seen the phone in the pocket of my pants, he wouldn’t be apologizing. “I passed the bathroom and saw your clothes on the wet floor—fuck. I’m sorry.” He reached for something behind the door, inside the bathroom. “I only placed your shirt and your pants on top of the hamper, and these fell out.”
I couldn’t describe the relief when he showed me the two tickets to the Philadelphia Orchestra. A breath gusted out of me, and I laughed.
My evident amusement seemed to throw him, and he grew confused.
“Now I don’t know how to react,” he said, a crease appearing in his forehead. “You so rarely share anything about your personal life, and this is clearly meant for someone special. A night at the symphony—oh, will you stop laughing, boy?”
I did my best to comply, but a few chuckles slipped out as I snagged the tickets from him. “You’re right. They’re for someone special. It’s your birthday present.”