Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Reed

Four days.

Four days until the end of filming.

And I don't know what happens after that.

I take the stairs up to Lennox's room, clutching a rectangular box taped up in a white paper bag in my hand.

It's quiet in the house. Last I heard, everyone from filming was heading out to a club. I went home after filming, showered and grabbed the package, spoke with my roommates for a few minutes, and then came back here after Lenn texted me that he was home.

Even in that hour and a half away from him, I'd fucking missed him.

Four days.

My shoulders tighten as I think about it.

What happens after, Reed?

I don't know.

Colin's leaving in two months. He has a rental room we can share in Madrid. It'd be close quarters but enough for tryouts. His plan is to hop the train up north if he doesn't get an offer. Keep trying at other teams.

Could I do something like that? Do I want to?

I knock, settling my thoughts, getting into the place where I just get to be with Lennox. Where I don't worry about anything else. Where everything makes sense. Where I make sense.

He'd tell me to go.

And there's a big part of me that wants him to tell me to go. Stop picking up gross towels and do something with your life.

"Come in," he calls.

I'm already antsy to see him as I push open the door. He does something to me. And it's so fucking good.

Can I get on an airplane and fly seven hours away from that?

Fuck, I don't know.

I find him in the middle of the floor, his legs crossed with a sketch pad open, journals from the hotel library circling him. We've been reading them late at night, curled around each other, my fingers threading through his hair, talking in low voices, reacting to everything that's in those pages.

The men in those journals were head over heels in love. Absolutely fucking enamored with each other. Not just this excited anticipation that I always feel around Lenn. But a depth of really knowing each other.

What would it feel like to love someone like that? To be loved like that?

Could Lenn and I have that? I already feel like I know him better than almost anyone. What would that look like after a year of knowing him? After five years?

His chin tips up as he takes me in, dark brown eyes moving over me slowly. It's part once-over and part something more serious.

"Fuck, I missed you," I blurt out. Jesus, so much. I thought about him the entire time I was gone.

He tucks his pencil behind his ear. "It was only a few hours."

"Shit, I know ." My lips rise. His hair frizzes around his pencil, and I want to comb it back. "I'm a little bit obsessed with you."

The last part comes out in a teasing tone.

But is it really?

I mean, I know we need to have boundaries and individuality and personal space and all that. And I think we do have that, or we're figuring out how that looks for us. But why can't I have a teeny bit of obsession for him, too? Can't I just fucking want him with every damn fiber of my being?

I maneuver around the journals and then crouch in front of him. My gaze simmers on his lips before we kiss, soft and slow, and it's so fucking delicious. He tastes sweet again—not like a milkshake, but there's something on his lips. A fruity gloss, maybe.

When he leans back, his lips quirk. He's showered, his makeup removed, wearing a tight black tank and lounge pants that swell over his packer in a way that makes my mouth water.

Although, gift first. I push aside some of the journals and sit next to him. Leaning back against his bed, I stretch out my legs.

"I have something for you." I hold out the package with the white bag. "I ordered it a few days ago."

"You got me something?" He blinks at me.

"I didn't know what to get." I went to that art store over on Broadway and basically claimed complete ignorance. But when I told the clerk about some of the artwork on Lennox's walls, I was given a few ideas.

"You didn't have to get anything, Reed." His tone shifts to serious, lines stretching across his forehead.

I bob the package. "Take it."

He flips his sketchpad closed and sets it aside, his forehead still wrinkled. He takes the package from me and unsticks the tape on the paper bag before rolling it open.

He freezes when he sees what's inside. "Holy shit. You got me Copics."

"I don't know if you'll use them." I shrug. "I don't know much about markers, but?—"

"They're Copics ." He's just staring down at them, looking bewildered. "This isn't a small gift."

No, it isn't. I had no idea that markers could be so expensive. But I wanted him to have something that would make him think of me.

Four days .

"I really wanted you to have them," I say.

He rolls a thumb over the clear plastic box, the markers all standing up inside. "Thank you. I love them. I've never had Copics." He glances around at his walls, and I don't know what he's thinking, but he swallows when he looks back at me. "I can't wait to use them."

"You could right now." I fucking love watching him draw. I could watch him for hours—the way he sits, his hand and wrist moving, his attention so focused. "What are you working on?"

"Um…" He clears his throat, dragging his attention off the markers. "I'm planning a look."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugs a shoulder. " Illusion got back to me. Before you get all excited, they just confirmed that they'll be verifying the film project once it's completed. And then they asked for another makeup look."

"But that's good, right?" I try to read everything I can on his face. "They're still interested."

"I think so. And I actually thought…" His fingers brush my thigh. "You could help me out with something. Considering you're so fucking gorgeous."

"Well, I don't know about the gorgeous part." I gravitate an inch closer to him. "But I'll help you out with whatever you need."

"Okay." He pulls in a slow breath—a nervous breath?—and reaches for his sketch pad. He flips it open and then holds it out to me. I stare down at myself, my breath stalling. It's an image of my face, except layered over with a skull. And there are butterflies along my cheekbone, edging onto my forehead. The drawing is in pencil, and it's been changed and reworked, faded, erased pencil lines, details pulled out with arrows and notes. Other sketches crowd the corners of the paper. I'm mesmerized by it—it's like getting a glimpse into how he thinks, how he creates. All the thoughts that go behind every line, every shade, every angle.

He studies my face. "It's an avant-garde look. I think they want something beautiful, but with an edge. And this is?—"

"Fucking amazing." I lick my lips, staring down at it. It's a mix between horror and beauty. The skull is dark, deep blacks and heavy lines, eyes that seem to glow in the darkness, bared teeth, tendons and muscles wrapping up from the neck. And then the butterflies flit over the top, tiny feet perched on bone, delicate and graceful, edged in pinks and purples.

"They're 3D," he says, pointing to his desk. "I made them with crepe paper. And then painted and brushed them with glitter."

"Holy fuck, Lenn." I push up to my feet and cross over to his desk. Twelve butterflies sit there, each delicately constructed and painted down to details so tiny it's nearly impossible to see. "You made these?"

He stands next to me. "It took less time than you'd think."

"I doubt that. Did you do it all tonight?"

He shakes his head, setting his sketchpad on his desk. "I've had this idea for a while. Sometimes, I get things in my head, and it's hard to get them out unless I create them. Like a cogwheel that keeps getting stuck, over and over, until something finally releases it."

"And you want to put this on me?" I turn toward him.

"It was created for you." He licks his lips, taking a breath. "For the structure of your face. For how you hold your jaw, how you set your mouth. For the angle of your cheekbones and the height of your forehead. It's yours."

"Mine?" The air feels thin between us, and I'm nearly lightheaded. I'm spinning and I'm floating. Fluttering like those butterflies.

"Yes." He rubs at the side of his neck. "Will you sit for me?"

"Now?"

He nods.

"Yes." It's not a decision. "Where?"

He points to his desk chair, and I pull off my hoodie and toss it on his bed before taking a seat.

"You'll have to take your hat off."

I slip it off and toss on his bed too, then run my fingers through my hair.

He tugs the paper that the butterflies are sitting on to the rear of his desk, all their wings quivering as they move. Next, he grabs his kit, rolls it out on his desk, and begins organizing it.

I watch him.

Fuck, I watch him. His hands, fingernails currently painted a deep purple, moving over all his products and brushes, his face intent. His forehead wrinkles as he tears out the sketch and tacks it to the wall in his line of sight, setting himself up before turning to me.

He smiles. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah." My eyes keep moving over him as he preps some cleansing pads and then softly brushes them over my face. His mouth is even with my eyes, his throat moving with a swallow as he steps between my legs. His lips part as he concentrates, the outside of his thigh bruising the inside of mine.

And… oh fuck… My breathing shallows.

He sets the cleansing wipes aside and then squeezes out some moisturizer before smoothing it over my cheeks and then my forehead. His room is quiet. It's just the sound of our breath as he works. He's fitted between my legs, my joggers stretched tight around my thighs, when his leg brushes mine again.

I bite back a moan, my cock already half-hard, my stomach already flexing. Jesus.

"How long is this going to take?" I ask him.

He smiles, lips rising right in my line of sight. "A couple of hours."

"A couple hours?" Oh Jesus, fuck. I shift in the seat, then reach to adjust my dick, releasing it from where it was pressed down the leg of my joggers.

He laughs softly. "We can take a break." His thumb rolls underneath my bottom lip. "Although I don't want you to mess up the progress. So, I'll just have to…" He glances down at where I'm so obviously hard. "Suck you off, maybe."

I groan. "Fucking hell, Lenn."

"Although it's only been about three minutes." He teases me with a light press of his knee to my crotch, tender against my balls. "Think you can make it another hour?"

"Sure," I say gruffly. And then his knee nudges my balls again, and I let out a fractured breath. "But you have to stop doing that."

He laughs, sliding an inch or two back. Far enough that he's not rubbing me anymore. "How about we set the clock for an hour?"

"And then what?"

His brows rise. "And then I get on my knees and suck you off while you sit in this chair."

Jesus. "What about you?"

His smile fades. "Having my vision on you is enough." His breath catches. "I need this, Reed. I need to do this. It's echoing in my head."

"Then we'll do it." I swallow. "There's nothing that I need. I'll sit for as long as it takes."

His thumbs roll down to my neck, and I tip my head back, letting him moisturize under my jaw, his fingers working, his focus turning to something more intense, something more driven. It absorbs both of us, silently sharing this moment as he works, making his vision, his hands on me, a steady thrum murmuring through my entire body.

And when I look in the mirror later, after he's snapped pictures of me for his portfolio submission, I'm stunned. The butterflies' wings catch in the light, and under them is my skull, strong and dark and angled. It's me . A version of me that feels so real I can hardly speak.

In that moment, something catches between us. We've had so many moments, but this one feels different. It feels like something that can't be replicated, that won't ever come again. That exists only this one time, so I clutch onto it. I clutch onto him.

I won't let go.