Wicked Boy (76) (Patreon)

* back to regular updates, kiddo is in school and my brain is finally in a semi-normal spot *

*

I shift back a step at his teasing, a roll of my eyes the only retort I can think of. Still, I feel delirious, my heart pulverizing the grace of my footing. I desperately try to latch onto the easy escape that his taunt offers me, to dismiss every slithering caterpillar's transformation inside the vacancy of my belly, their fragile wings unfurling up towards my rib cage.

You're it for me.

Ezra's prior sincerity, those four words — they whiz about in my head like a drunken mantra, lighter fluid on cheap diner vodka. It's dangerous, isn't it? The fumes — the fact that I'm wholly saturated by this haze.

I revel in it privately, stunned, childishly wanting to find a safe space to lay and question this validity, this consoling lightness.

But —

This is a safe space.

The match has been lit, searing cobwebs from darkened corners, brighter than Ezra's beckoning porch light. I'm neither the moth, the spider, or any other small, unwanted creature — and Ezra is looking at me.

Nothing is lurking in this corner; this home, the silent road in front of it, and the car outside that is no worse for wear after lugging around two muddy dogs. It's overwhelming. Nothing but a magnolia tree and a sturdy roof are twisting into place above me, no lid, no suffocating lack of oxygen.

Everything is in my hands now: mine, my relationships, pastimes, my career, and anything provided is an undocumented gift.

I've never had the feeling of my life being in my hands. Unexpectedly, I don't feel that my only control over it is the urge to sabotage it — to end it.

The birds are chittering outside, and warm rays on the wood floor touch the toes of my muddy loafers. There are no expectations of me or who I'm meant to become. Just hope without naïveté and a desire that, given enough effort, I can fill the corners that were once unclear with sunrises like this.

I hear the shake of a breath somewhere, then realize — dazed, that it also came from me.

Ezra's brow ticks upwards, gaze straying after mine before we meet again somewhere in the middle — my explanation unsaid, as he looks at me the same way that he had when he removed my helmet after that night drive, the same way he had outside of Jameson's bar.

I drift back to reality as Ezra's curiosity ripens into concern.

"... I dated claims specialists," I say, stilted only by the time it took me to do so. "Not accountants."

Ezra considers that with mild displeasure. He takes a step closer, one that negates my attempt to back away — and his free hand slinks up the small of my back, palm on the side of my waist. The fabric's rucking seems deliberate as air-conditioned air drifts across a sliver of my exposed midsection. It feels much more purposeful as Ezra's thumb sinks into my hipbone's curve.

"Same shit."

"They aren't. Your joke didn't land."

"Oh?" Ezra laughs, a quick breath of a thing, and then whispers, "Doesn't matter. I'm better."

My heart hiccups at the dip in his tone, and overwhelmed - I forget to take it as a tease. My wayward attention slides between us, watching his touch flirt at the edge of my pajama bottoms,

"You're incomparable," I say, too genuine, too smitten — and the man in front of me shifts.

Ezra's green eyes find mine, thumb idling in the trail of an upside down U; brow quirked with surprise, then mild understanding — like my expression has skewered him, run through the teasing - and then even further, until all that's left are my words — bare between us.

"... Incomparable?" I watch Ezra's touch slowly press along the shadow of my skin, rougher as it dips under my crooked shirt hem. "Explain."

"I won't." I manage — thrown off by the newness of my ability to pick apart the slim disparities in the other man's expressions — thrown by how his voice drops, intense with interest. "I can't explain it."

He bullies closer, persistent with his touch, distracting as he all but demands,

"Then show me."

"Ezra. That's impossible. I don't..."

My regard drifts again to Ezra's finger, my lashes heavy, before my voice cracks away into nothing. Once again, my eyes flit to meet Ezra's, his breadth close enough to reach my arms around him.

So, I do.

I push into Ezra's chest — warm, smelling of detergent and sandalwood — face first into his collar, his skin familiar with the scent of the same soap as mine. I burrow into him, arms lax around his middle. I channel my prior gladness and dueling apprehension and think — as Ezra's arms wind tightly around me, that —

This must be what safety feels like.

I want to tell Ezra that that's what he is to me - safety. Quiet backroads, morning diners, birds singing after storms, quilts - old films, the sun warming wooden floors.

Even if he didn't — or doesn't become anything else to me, I'll remember this feeling.

Ezra inhales, his breath fluttering across my temple, then at my ear, as he tilts his head with softened eyes — a gaze that translates into a firm endearment, something I can finally see.

"Good job." His voice is low, warm, and easy — playing into my distraction. He runs a palm up my back, grounding my unsteady pulse. "I get it now."

My damp lashes flutter, the hyperawareness of intimacy oscillating between unsteadiness and sweeping comfort.

Ezra draws back just enough, eyes on mine — mine that widen, neck hot at the realization, at the epiphany that...

My heart is wild at the idea of his affection.

"I should go back to sleep." I clear my throat, stumped but gut twisting with the tug of Ezra's lure — the palm on my spine running down — then upwards again. "You should, too."

Electricity follows it, a desire to be touched in any way - but especially this way, with familiarity and fondness.

Ezra appears to dismiss me — instead, he tugs at our joined fingers, sending me flittering back into his light, his hand sneaking up and around my wrist, pulling only once before I'm trailing behind him.

His hallway feels bizarrely long, the dim-lit bedroom cooler thanks to the ceiling fan that whirs quietly above us. He releases me, tugs at the sheets to straighten them, then nods toward the opposite side of the mattress.

I don't have it in me to feign obliviousness or reluctance.

The bed looks much better than the couch.