Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

Learn who you are.

Unlearn who they told you to be.

-S. McNutt

Lennox

I sit in silence.

I'm at my desk, my sketchpad next to me. It's not open. It hasn't been since I sat down, the black spiral cover closed under the blue-tinted desk lamp.

Instead of drawing, I'm staring at the far edge of my desk, the side close to the wall, a part of the desk that was white once, but the paint has rubbed off over time to reveal brown underneath.

I'm not sure how late it is.

Indy's door was closed when Jamie and I got home. He climbed the stairs and then paused in front of her door before stalking off to his room without looking back.

I love my brother.

And I love Indy.

I grab a pencil from the tray to my right, examine the tip, and then reach for a sharpener. But after it's sharpened, I set it back in the tray.

Was Reed still in Indy's room talking to her? What did he tell her?

I scrub my hand through my hair and then lean forward, setting my elbows on the desk. I'm hunched over there when a knock echoes from the door.

I straighten. Then I slowly push up to my feet. There are three choices of who could be at the door.

Three very different conversations.

My pulse thumps in my throat as I walk to the door.

Which of those conversations am I about to have?

I pull down the handle and step back to open the door, and that thump gets even harder, my mouth drying.

"Reed." My voice is rough from sitting silently at my desk for so long. "You're here."

Backward hat and hands in his pockets, he still has my scars on his cheek. "Is that okay?"

"Sure." I rub a hand over the side of my neck. It still happens upon seeing him—the hairs rising there, the edge of nervousness, the slip of cold across the back of my shoulders that turns into something warmer as it spreads down my back, settling low around my spine.

He lingers in the threshold. "I told her. I thought you should know."

I release the breath I'd been holding. "What did you tell her?"

His eyes shift to mine. "Everything."

Relief floods me.

The truth is out there.

Maybe she'll be angry like Jamie. But at least it will be an honest angry.

I glance over his shoulder to the hallway. "How is she?"

"She's… fine."

"What does that mean?"

"Just what I said. She's fine." He shrugs. "She's not angry. Not really hurt, even."

"She's not?"

"No."

I struggle to wrap my mind around that. "And you told her about what happened in the library and?—"

"I told her everything , Lennox." His gaze locks onto mine, his voice sharpening. "All of it. From start to finish. Every fucking detail."

My lips part. "Okay."

He sighs. "Including how I feel about you."

My heart pummels to a stop.

I've been struggling through these last hours. Staring at my desk, my mind going down so many different paths, so many different possibilities.

"And how do you feel about me?" I ask, my voice quiet, the exact opposite of the riot in my body. The squeeze of blood heating my veins, the tension in my fingers as they curl at my sides.

What is that for him?

What is it really?

Does he know?

His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. His hands fist in his pockets, his biceps pressing out the arms of his hoodie. "It's difficult to stand here, two feet away from you. Every time I see you, I want to be closer."

I take him in, the way he fills my doorframe. The way a tendon in his neck is tight, his forearms still taut under the ink of his tattoos, all his muscles constricted.

My lips part. "It's difficult for me, too. Standing this far away from you is almost painful, in a way. I don't understand why, but it's like every bit of distance is magnified."

He releases a long breath that ends in a shaky laugh. "It's not really logical, is it?"

"No." I lick my lips. "There's something I need to tell you."

He blinks. "Alright."

I step back. "Come in."

I turn and walk to my desk. Leaning back against it, I brace my hands on the edge.

Reed steps in through the door, stopping in the center of my room, his head twisting as he takes in the walls, but then he focuses back on me.

Fuck, he looks like Archer.

I haven't thought of that in awhile, Reed's become his own person, but now, knowing what I'm about to tell him, it comes back full force.

He's beautiful. And Archer was an asshole, but he was beautiful too.

And maybe somewhere in there, I have a thought that a boy as beautiful as him would never love me. Would never really genuinely care. I'm not sure if it's attached to an idea of not being good enough, or just that feeling of Archer failing me the first time, or because I'm different, from my body to my mind to whatever put me on this earth.

I steady myself, pressing my palms against the edge of my desk until it nearly hurts, my heels grounded on the floor hard enough I can feel the weave of my socks.

When I told Archer, he didn't believe me.

"No fucking way."

"Not you."

"You're making shit up."

I brace myself for that, for whatever the fuck he's going to say, as I find my words.

Reed keeps looking at me, waiting.

I straighten my shoulders. "I'm a trans man."

He blinks again. I wait for the once over—it almost always happens when someone realizes I'm trans. Even if people don't mean to, their eyes sweep over my body, trying to answer questions in their head. I try not to take offense to it—it's simply an initial reaction. Honestly, I've probably done it before, too, even though I'm now conscious not to because I think, as a society, it's something we should stop doing.

But with Reed, it doesn't happen. His eyes are fixed on mine.

"Okay," he says.

I freeze. "Okay?"

He nods. "Okay. Alright."

My lower back aches from how I'm leaning back against the desk, from how constricted my muscles are. And… "That's it?"

"I'm glad you told me." He frowns. "Should I have questions?"

"Um, maybe?" I'm in a surreal world. "I understand if this changes your feelings toward me. And if it does, that doesn't mean?—"

"It doesn't." His gaze never leaves mine, the line of his jaw still rigid. "It doesn't change a single fucking thing."

I cross my arms over my chest. "You were confused about your own sexuality."

"Yeah, because I didn't know me ." His face is all serious lines. "But there's never been a second, since we met, where I didn't want you . It was instant. It was unexplainable. It was fucking overpowering. This need to be close to you. And I've never doubted who you are."

I search him for any sign that he's going to suddenly scoff and step back. That he's suddenly going to make a right turn and bite out a bunch of shit that's designed to hurt.

That's not Reed .

It hasn't been since I met him.

It's not him now.

I stand up, pushing off the desk, the edge leaving an indentation across my palm, my legs partly numb.

He inhales deeply, his chest expanding, his throat moving as he swallows. That current between us snapping, lighting, pulling us closer. The unexplainable one, the one that just exists. That has always existed, electric from the first moment for both of us.

Just lust and chemistry?

I'm not sure. But I want to find out.

No matter how complicated this gets.

His gaze slips down to my mouth, and I'm starting to be able to read that look, like he can't think about anything except for his lips on mine.

But he must be, because he turns, takes two strides toward the door, and then closes it quietly before turning back around.

He stands across from me.

I wait.

With what I just told him, I need him to take the first step. It needs to be him who closes the distance.

His foot moves, his forehead wrinkling under the strap of his hat, his breath catching, and in an instant, he closes the space between us.

His hand clasps the side of my neck, his lips coming to mine. It's urgent, edging on too much, our mouths smashing hard, tongues fighting, his grip on my neck close to painful, fingers digging in deep, but I don't back away from it.

I need it.

Every second that we've tried to keep away from each other wells back up, shoving us closer together.

We're trapped in a boiling cauldron, searing as he backs me up. My ass hits the desk, and then I'm sitting on it, my legs wrapping his thighs, my head nearly slamming against the wall and the artwork behind me as he plasters me down, the long length of his torso over me, the power in his arms and legs bearing down.

We kiss so hard that my lips ache. There's no air left as our tongues move and our hands shake. We empty out every bit of tension between us, evident in the rough grab of our fingers. I clutch at the ridges of his biceps, down to his forearms, and then back up to his shoulders. Every one of his muscles flexing under my touch—in direct response to it.

A low groan rattles deep in his throat, his hand shifting to grab my jaw, and he locks my face to his.

Fuck, I want to be closer, too.

It's edging on panicked. I fist his hoodie, yanking it to the side, the zipper snagging, and he tugs it down with his free hand, the other still locked around my jaw, and pulls it off. He follows with his t-shirt, releasing me for only long enough to drag it over his head.

His shirt off, my hands touching hot skin. Not just warm, but heated, practically shooting fire along the muscles that line his spine, branching outwards to his shoulders. The ink runs over his right shoulder and across one pec, tattoos moving as he grabs for me.

We're breathing heavily between frantic kisses, mouths meeting every possible second, his fingers gripping so hard under my jaw I wonder if they'll leave a bruise.

He kisses to my ear. "Can I take off your shirt?"

I nod, my jaw scraping against his. And then he's pulling up on my shirt, yanking it over my head. It falls somewhere on the desk, and then he groans again, a low long noise as his eyes sail over me, down to my pecs, my surgery scars, my navel, where my waistband cuts into my stomach.

"Fuck, Lennox," he grinds out, dipping to kiss my neck, his hat grazing against my jaw. "It's all so new. Just…" He shudders.

His hand falls from my jaw, moving down as he sucks on my neck, his thumb rolling over my nipple, and I swallow my own moan before his palm flattens against my sternum.

He's breathing against my skin, his hat scratching my jaw, his shoulders moving unevenly. I can feel the weight of his dick starting to press against my thigh, my packer shoved up against him, but he's slowed his movements. He's tucked against me, a shiver racing down his arms as they wrap around me, clasping me to him.

He nearly stills.

"Reed?" I ask. My voice is husky, my head is spinning.

I want his skin against mine.

He's not moving, his lips pressed against my neck.

"Reed?" I ask again.

He takes a breath and tips his head back. His eyes are reddened. Damp. Not crying, but close.

"Hey." I catch his chin with my hand. "Are you good?"

"It's not just physical." His forehead lines. "It's not just a physical need. It's more. I want…" He swallows deeply. "I want to be in here . Your room, your world, your mind. Your body is part of that, but it's only one part. And I don't want to rush through it."

I run my thumb along his jaw. "We can take it slower."

"Are you sure?"

My lips rise. "We can try."

I'm reclined on my desk, so I sit up, pressing him back, and he shifts with me.

This is new for him.

I let my hand fall off his chin. "Let me take your makeup off. It has to be drying your skin."

He nods, his eyes closing and then opening as he steps back.

"Sit on my bed." I say. He does, and I step out into the hallway to the bathroom to grab a makeup remover.

I glance down the hallway. The bedroom doors are closed—both Jamie and Indy's. I pause, then head back and close my door behind me. Reed's sitting on my bed, his hands on his thighs, shirt still off, hat backward, a curl of dark hair by each ear.

I cross to him and stand there for a moment. He tilts his chin up to look at me, his legs falling open, the fabric stretching, his erection obvious where he's tucked against one thigh. He doesn't call attention to it though, and neither do I, even as I settle on top of him, straddling him, my knees digging into the bed on either side of his thighs.

"I like this." His hands rest on my knees.

"What exactly do you like about it?" I fold a makeup remover wipe and swab it down his cheek, away from his eye, removing the first layer.

He laughs, keeping his chin tilted up so I can work, his face tinted blue in the desk lamp. "You're on me." He wrinkles his nose as I wipe next to it, his hands slipping up to my thighs. "And you're shirtless. And you're touching me. And you're talking to me. What's not to like?"

I refold the wipe and stroke it down his other cheek as his eyes meet mine. "You forgot to mention that your hands are on my thighs."

"Did I?" His brows lift, then his thumbs press harder against my jeans, directly over my femoral artery. A vibration runs up, all the way.

My mouth tips open. "Oh shit. What was…"

He runs his thumbs over the spot, massaging softly, his lips rising. "Pressure point."

"Is that a water polo thing?" I fold and wipe again, slowly this time, to get any lasting remnants. Fuck, that felt weird.

And good.

And weird.

"Nope." His thumbs roll over the spot again.

"Is that a trick you do with everyone?" I fold the wipe one last time, noticing a last spot of foundation.

"No," he says quietly as I work. "No one has ever sat on me like this."

"Never?"

"Never."

"You've been missing out." I finish and toss the wipe at a wastebasket next to my desk.

"I agree." His thumbs rub over that spot again, and I automatically shiver in response.

"Makeup off?"

"Yep."

"Good." He presses lightly, then his hand slides along the inside of my thighs. His thumbs inches up. Slowly. "Is this okay?"

"Yes."

He takes a nervous breath. I probably do too. Then he keeps moving up along the inside of my thigh.

And, shit.

I swallow. My bottom dysphoria can be really complicated. It's never been consistent—it comes and goes, sometimes acute, sometimes a dull murmur. But maybe we should…

He squeezes lightly again and holy fuck . Words don't come. My head wants to tip back, my stomach flexes. He's an inch from my packer, and I lick my lips, trying to get control enough to talk.

His eyes move up to mine. "Do you want to?"