5. Abi

CHAPTER 5

ABI

T atum hasn't spoken a word since Fiona pulled over and instructed us to get into the front of the car. Brody and Scotty are riding shotgun, giving us the back seat, the luggage now tucked away in the trunk. We're less than five miles from his childhood home, and he's been shaking like a leaf in my lap most of the way. I've had my finger inside him, slowly fucking the digit in and out, wanting to put him at ease.

He tugs my shirt. "We're just going to tell them we're friends, right?" he whispers.

"We can tell them whatever you like," I assure him. "However you want to handle things, I'll follow your lead."

He sighs and melts into me when I strike his prostate. He studies my face for a moment like he's working himself up to saying something. "It's not that I'm ashamed of you or anything. It's just going to be hard to explain an impromptu, spur-of-the-moment marriage to them. I'll never hear the end of it. They love me, but their belief in me is already stick-thin. This would just be the final nail in the parental-respect coffin. Then I'll have to explain the divorce or annulment or whatever the hell it's called. I'll be a failure in their eyes. "

Divorce. Annulment.

The words slash at me, leaving my heart in ribbons. He's said it so casually, like it's the only logical outcome.

I lean in, nuzzling my face against his scalp, inhaling the scent of his strawberry shampoo. "They may not have faith in you, but I do." I kiss the top of his head and hold myself here, breathing him in. "I promise, I don't mind. Whatever you need to tell them; it's fine."

"Thank you."

As I hold Tatum for what might be the last time, Scotty guides Fiona to a small cul-de-sac. The home we arrive at is like something out of Leave it to Beaver . As Tatum might say: It's old-school and it's giving nuclear-family vibes. The home is a two-story colonial, constructed of red bricks. There's a wrap-around porch with potted plants hanging from the roof. The yard looks like it belongs on the cover of Better Homes this is Abi."

Instinctively, I reach for the small of his back, wanting to feel him against me, but then I remember his request to keep what we share hidden. Though it pains me to do so, I resist the urge to touch him and simply offer his parents a quick smile and nod.

"Goodness," Mrs. St. James says, finally noticing me. "I'm so sorry. Where in the world are my manners?" She takes a step toward me, her arms out wide like Jesus on the cross. "Sugar, we've heard all about you." I'm not sure where she's heard anything about me, considering Tatum has never mentioned my existence. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, Abi ."

Mrs. St. James surprises me when she speaks the name, and again when she wraps her arms around me, pulling me in for an overwhelming hug. Aside from Tatum, no one has held me like this in years. Not even Fiona. It's strange to hear my name on her lips. With anyone else, it feels like panic and dread and a heavy weight on my chest. Somehow, it's different with Tatum's mother. It feels similar to the way it does when Tatum says it. Like I've been saving it for her. It's a feeling that doesn't make much sense, but I don't question it. I just wrap my arms around her and return the hug she's giving to me.

"Thank you for taking care of my boy," she says. "I know he must have been forlorn over losing his boyfriends, but it warms my heart to know he's had someone to pick up the broken pieces."

A rush of pride washes over me, because whoever has been feeding her intel—again, probably Scotty Levinson—has told her about me. About the way I keep him safe. Because I do. I keep him safe so well.

Wanting to get to the bottom of this informant business, I playfully knock my shoulders against his, trying to lead Mrs. St. James into an admission. "You've told her about us, little one?" The endearment is out before I can stop myself, and a chill runs down my spine when Tatum shoots me a death glare.

"Little one?" Tatum's father asks.

"Yes, sir. He's very small."

"I'm big where it counts," Tatum grumbles under his breath. I cannot agree with him, because that would mean making them privy to our relationship, and Tatum does not want that, as much as it pains me to admit.

"But you are still very small everywhere else." For emphasis, I lord over him, patting the top of his head. "See?" I turn to his parents and smile. "The little one."

As Tatum's father stares at me with a fascinated expression, his mother butts in.

"It wasn't Tatum who told me about you," Mrs. St. James says. "He's a secretive Sally when it comes to matters of the heart. No, I had to hear the news from Scotty." She stands on her toes and peeks over my shoulder toward the car. Looking back, I see Scotty staring at us through the window with wide eyes.

We will be having a nice long chat later.

Tatum growls, startling both his parents and me. His face is the color of a tomato, and when he turns and glares at me, I brace myself for impact. I wouldn't have thought he'd slap me in front of his mother, but if it helps make him feel more at ease, I'm happy to tell her it's one of my kinks.

"And what else did Scottadict Arnold tell you?" He's got his hands balled into fists, and he's clenching so tightly, his knuckles have gone white.

"Everything you should have told me, months ago." She stares down at Tatum's hands and scowls. "Baby, where's your ring?"

"Pardon?" Tatum says, looking down at his hand. "What ring?"

Mrs. St. James rolls her eyes. "Your ring. Heavens to Betsy, you can't just walk around without a ring. I mean, I'm a liberal woman, but there's a sanctity to marriage, and you can't just throw tradition out the window. If you don't have one, we'll have to get you one." She pauses, chewing her cheek in contemplation. Her gaze drifts to her husband, then at his hand. "You can just give him yours." Mr. St. James's eyes narrow, and he folds his arms over his chest, looking away. When he refuses to answer, Mrs. St. James just shrugs. "Don't worry. We'll figure all that out later. We've got a week before the wedding, and you know my motto; it'll all come out in the wash." She squeezes Tatum's arm. "As happy as I am to have you home, don't think you're off the hook."

"Off the hook for what? I don't understand what's happening." He looks to me for answers, but I'm still trying to piece together the puzzle myself.

Tatum's mother tsk-tsks at her son. "Do you even have to ask?"

Mr. St. James nods, and he reaches for Tatum, squeezing his shoulder. "We should have heard it from you, son. It's not every day your only son gets engaged."

"That's all I'm saying," Mrs. St. James agrees. "It would have been nice to be kept in the loop. Regardless, you're here now, and that's what counts. Don't you worry about a thing, either. We're going to plan the best dang wed?—"

"Mrs. St. James?" I interrupt, only to be interrupted myself.

"None of this Mrs. St. James foolishness. You're practically family. Just call me Mom."

"What the actual fuck?" Tatum shrieks. "He will not call you Mom. Never. And how the hell did you know about the engagement?"

Ah. Yes. Let the meltdown commence.

"Tatum Rodrick St. James, what in the world has gotten into you? Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Good Lord, it's like you were raised by heathens." She flings her hands in the air in frustration, and all at once, I see it—the man he is, the sassy brat he's become—is all down to this woman. He's learned all he knows from her. The way they twist their neck to the side, right before they shout. How they squint in similar fashion when anger clouds their vision. I could hug her for it, because Tatum's sassy side is the side I love most. Unfortunately, I'm given no chance to do so, because Tatum whirls around on his heels and marches toward the car. Panic stirs within me, because I know if he's going to attack Scotty, Brody will pull out a weapon, and we'll have to explain all of this to Tatum's mother. Our little found family is one I love completely, but weapon play and death threats are generally frowned upon by upstanding members of society.

"Inside," I whisper as I step between Tatum and the car. "We will figure this out, but if you upset Brody, he will brandish a weapon, and we'll have no way to explain it to Mom."

His eyes bulge. "Do not call her Mom. Never. I don't care how many times she insists." He points a finger at the car without breaking eye contact with me. "Now, you tell that shady son of a bitch, by the time I'm done with him, he will beg for death's sweet escape. I'm not playing. This is unacceptable." Shoving his hands against my chest, he pushes me away and marches toward the house. "Unacceptable!"

In the car, Fiona is reading her Kindle, looking disinterested in everything that's happening. Brody has Scotty on his lap, tenderly kissing the side of his face. Scotty, however, is staring at me with wide fearful eyes. Good. Let him be frightened. I flick my finger over my shoulder, motioning for them to join us in the house. Brody and Scotty step out of the car, and Scotty hides behind his fiancé like he's been expecting this all along.

Fee shifts the car into Drive, but Scotty quickly shakes his head, screeching, "Feefee, wait!"

She turns her head slowly, blinking at him. "Feefee isn't your thing. Only Tatum gets to call me that."

"Fine, whatever. Just—You gotta come in, okay? Because Tatum's going to be angrier than he's ever been once his mom tells him what I did?—"

"He knows everything," I say to Scotty. " We know everything, and we are not amused."

Fee groans as she slams the gearshift into Park and turns off the ignition. Once she's out of the car, she slams the door with all her might and makes her way around, heading toward the sidewalk. "I'm staying for ten minutes, tops. Once I've made sure cheeky boy is okay, I'm leaving this suburban hellhole, and I'm checking into the bed-and-breakfast. I agreed to drive everyone here, I didn't sign up for family reunions." She whips her hair over her shoulder, somehow managing to look both irate and angelic at the same time. She pulls a tube of lipstick from her pocket and spreads it on. I do not understand Tatum's hatred for the maroon shade she wears, but I'm tempted to ask her to remove every trace because he is already in enough of a state. The lipstick might be the straw that breaks the little one's back. Since that would only end in Fee telling me to go fuck myself before speeding away without coming in, I resist, though it is a well-fought emotional battle.

I clap a hand against her shoulder and lean in. "His parents are quite stunning," I say, trying to sweeten the deal. "Quite a bit of eye-candy to go around. His father has what Scotty might describe as ‘daddy vibes,' and I'm pretty sure his mother?—"

She lifts a hand, stopping me. "You had me at eye-candy. Let's roll."

Ten minutes later, we're in the St. James family's living room. I'm sitting on a loveseat while Tatum helps his mother with coffees. Across from me, Brody's on the sofa with Scotty in his lap. Fiona is wedged between Brody and Tatum's father on the sofa, slowly darting her gaze between Mr. St. James and myself, one eyebrow arched, as if silently questioning my judgment for insinuating the man is attractive. I suppose taste is subjective, but Mr. St. James is a beautiful man in my book. Sure, he dresses like a librarian from the nineteen-fifties, but it adds to the overall aesthetic.

The living room is quite lovely; the walls are a soft pink with white trim. Their sofa is white with pink buttons on the cushions. A glossy pink coffee table is the only thing separating Brody and Scotty from me. I'm still trying to understand why Scotty would tell Tatum's mother we're engaged. Though, a few of his recent admissions make sense now. Telling Tatum to avoid his mother's calls. Suggesting we skip visiting them altogether. His apprehension to plan the wedding—a wedding meant to take place in a little over a week.

Scotty's got his pink suitcase in front of him, and he keeps nervously darting his eyes at Tatum through the kitchen archway. Neither Scotty nor Brody have made eye contact with me since we exited the car earlier, but Scotty's got a guilty expression on his face, and he's clinging to Brody like a buoy in the middle of the sea. Brody, for his part, doesn't look as if he feels guilty in the slightest. If anything, he looks aroused. His hand is cupping Scotty's ass, and he's leaned in, whispering what I can only assume are filthy, lascivious words, because each time he says something, Scotty's face grows redder.

"Alrighty-rooty," Mrs. St. James says as she enters the room. She's carrying a tray of coffee cups, and when she reaches the sofa, she hands a cup to each of the men and Fiona, barely paying them much notice. Her eyes are locked on Scotty, affection pouring out endlessly. She bends down and kisses Scotty's forehead. "I fixed yours just the way you like it, baby. Cinnamon sugar, butterscotch syrup, and fresh cherries."

Brody winces like the words pain him. "You put cherries in your coffee?"

"I've got a cherry for you, Daddy," Scotty says in a seductive tone.

Mrs. St. James smiles cheerfully and turns around, setting the tray and coffees on the pink table before taking one for herself. Once she's seated in the rocking chair across from me, she sips slowly, eyeing me up and down. "You know, you're not someone I would have pictured Tatum with, but I can kind of see it now." Before I can ask what that means, her eyes widen when she really looks at Fee for the first time. Her cheeks flush the longer she stares, and it almost seems like her motherly aura has faded, making way for a look I can't quite read. "Aren't you just adorable?" She points at Fee's crop top. It's a pink shirt with a Powerpuff Girl in the center, and the words Sugar, spice, and everything naughty written in a chunky font. "That's so cute! Tatum used to have dolls just like that."

Fee snorts a laugh. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me." She stands and reaches across the coffee table, shaking Mrs. St. James's hand. "I'm Fiona."

Mrs. St. James studies Fee for a moment, a question half-formed on her lips. Whatever she wants to ask falls by the wayside when Tatum shuffles into the living room, carrying a cup of coffee and a scowl aimed right at me. I sigh, because even though I know he needs someone to funnel his anger at, of all the men in the room, I deserve his wrath the least .

It does not matter. I will allow it, because I know he's worried right now. There's an empty seat beside me, but he doesn't take it. Instead, he crosses the living room and sits in an old recliner, the leather well-worn from time.

"So," Tatum's father says as he slowly sips his coffee. "Tell me everything. How did you meet? How long have you been seeing each other?"

Mrs. St. James smiles coyly at Scotty. "Scotty's been awfully secretive during our nightly phone calls."

"Nightly phone calls?" Tatum shrieks. "Nightly phone calls, Scotty?"

Scotty cuddles closer to Brody for protection. "My mom is dead, Tatum. You don't get to be angry at me for wanting a relationship with yours."

Tatum closes his eyes and nods. "I'm not mad you want a relationship with her, I'm angry that you told her Abi and I—" He snaps his mouth shut, and the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk. He stares right at his biffle, mouthing, " This means war. " Taking in a deep breath, he holds on to it for a beat before letting it out slowly. When it's done, he forces a smile that doesn't seem genuine in the slightest. "Forget I said anything." He places his coffee cup on the end table nearest his chair before hopping up and heading toward me. I'm barely able to set my own coffee cup on the table before he plops down into my lap and wraps an arm around my shoulder, cuddling close.

Tatum's mother makes a squeaking sound, and when I look over at her, tears are fresh in her eyes. "You two are just so precious together. Alright, start from the beginning. How did you meet?"

Tatum rolls his eyes. "Abi is Brody's best friend. When Brody and Scotty ran away without telling any of us, Abi and Fee turned up at his apartment, trying to figure out why Brody left without so much as a word. I was there looking for Scotty and we just bumped into each other. Cue chemistry," he says, twinkling his fingers like he's attempting jazz hands. "Cue connection. Cue our undying love." He looks over his shoulder at me and winks. "Right, babes?"

"Correct," I say with a grin. "At first sight, sweetheart."

He turns to Scotty, aiming his words at his mother. "Of course, Fiona was distraught, considering she'd just lost her husband."

Tatum's mother's eyes widen as she stares at Fee. "I am so sorry for your loss. If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure he's in a better place."

Fee snorts, giving the woman a smile she's never given me. "Hardly." She flicks her thumb to the side, motioning at Brody. "He's far closer than I'd like him to be at the moment."

Mrs. St. James stares at Fee, then at Brody, looking confused. "I'm sorry, I don't think I'm following."

"Brody," Fee says. "He's my ex-husband."

"Scotty stole him," Tatum adds smugly. "While she was on vacation, no less. Just barged right in and laid claim to a married man." He glares at Scotty, mouthing, " Checkmate, motherfucker. "

I'm not sure what sort of reaction Tatum's expecting from his mother, but her focus is solely on Fee. "That's horrible." She stands from her seat and heads to the sofa. Once she's there, she points at the place she was just seated. "Would you boys mind swapping with me?" Brody just grunts and stands, carrying Scotty for the move. Once Tatum's mother is seated next to Fee, she takes her hand and gives a supportive smile. "Trust me, I know all about marital woes. If you ever need to talk, I'd be happy to listen."

Fee does not offer her usual snarky reply. Instead, she gives the woman a rare smile. "That's really sweet of you. I was never all that torn up about it." She stares down at their connected hand and smiles. "I'll definitely take you up on late-night chats, though."

As they stare at each other with strange expressions, the sound of papers shuffling pulls us out of the moment, and everyone stares at Scotty, now seated on the floor, across the coffee table. The suitcase Scotty's been carrying around for three months is open, and it's filled with papers he and Mr. St. James are reading intently.

"I like what you've done here, son," Mr. St. James says. "Pink and chocolate are beautiful color choices." He flips through the papers before pulling out a hand-drawn sketch of what I can only assume is meant to be Scotty and Brody standing at the altar. It's a bit difficult to tell, considering the pair on paper are simply two stick figures who appear to be having sex in the center of the aisle. "As for this," he says, pointing at the stick figures. "I don't know how well our friends and family would react to you riding Tatum down the aisle like a horsey."

Scotty shakes his head emphatically, pointing at the doodle. "Oh, no. That's not me and Tatum, that's Tatum and Abi once the wedding is over. They're having anal sex. They enjoy being watched. It's their thing."

Tatum's nails dig into my thigh, piercing my skin through the jeans. "It is not!"

Scotty shakes his head. "It is, and it's okay, Tater Tot. There's nothing wrong with a bit of voyeurism. Tell him, Momma Lindsay."

Tatum's mother looks horrified. She's got her hand to her chest, clutching non-existent pearls. "Yes. I think it's best we move this one from the maybe pile to the I'm going to need copious amounts of Xanax to forget this conversation ever took place pile." She grabs the paper from her husband without looking at it, folds it in half, and tucks it under a tall stack of other ideas Tatum's father must've vetoed already. "Oh, now, this ... this, I like." She holds up another piece of paper. This time, there's a stick figure with yellow hair that appears to have been drawn with a crayon. Next to the figure—who I can only assume is meant to be Tatum—is an unnecessarily tall man with a hand wedged between the other man's cheeks, fingering him mercilessly. There are two other figures in the drawing, and the smaller of the pair is riding on the other's hip. It almost looks like a double wedding .

For Scotty's sake, I pray this doesn't mean what I think it does. It would make sense. The marriage license. Scotty's noncommittal plans for their wedding. My heart slams in my chest, because I'm pretty sure he's planned a?—

"A double fucking wedding?" Tatum screams, his voice loud enough to shatter glass.

"There is no need for that sort of language. How many times do I have to tell you? Honestly, Tatum. I didn't raise you this way. All we want is for your wedding to be special, and you've been screaming and shouting since you got here. This is all new to us, too, and you're not making it any easier. We're trying, Tatum."

Fee cocks an eyebrow. "Trying to do what? To cope with your son marrying a man?" She scoots away from Mrs. St. James. Considering she's wedged between her and the arm of the couch, she doesn't get far. "If that's a touch of homophobia I hear in your tone, you can nip that in the bud this instant."

She shakes her head emphatically. "Oh, goodness, no. That's not what I meant at all. It's not that I don't approve." Reaching for her neck, she pulls a small necklace from under her shirt. There's an oversized rainbow attached to the chain that looks like one of those acrylic paint-by-numbers items you might purchase at a craft store. "I'm the proudest PFLAG mom this side of the Mason Dixon line."

Tatum's father offers a clipped nod in agreement. "Love is love. They're born this way."

"Exactly," Tatum's mother continues, shooting an annoyed look at her husband. "We're not bothered by it in the slightest, we just don't see that many gay weddings in Tallulah, so I don't know how to plan one. Well, Mayor Rivera and his fiancé—Phillip Firecracker, you remember him, don't you, Tatum?—they're getting married next spring." She stares into the distance and nods. "Huh. I guess we do get gay weddings here. Look at Tallulah, Texas, becoming a hotbed of human rights. How fabulous! "

"Mrs. St. James, I believe you're spiraling," I say, wanting to rein the conversation in. Tatum's almost in a full-blown panic, and I'm sure the last thing he needs is a tangent.

She gives me a wide grin. "Baby, what did I say outside? Just call me Mom."

Tatum's father nods. "And you can call me Dad."

The last time someone said those words to me was when I moved in with Brody. His parents offered to adopt me, telling me I was family. Asking me to call them Mom and Dad. Just the mere suggestion was enough to send me into a three-day spiral. This doesn't feel the same. It almost feels ... right .

Tatum's back is now cradled snugly against my chest, my hand wrapped around him, keeping him close. His breathing is erratic, so I try to calm him by gently stroking his stomach. Mrs. St. James is still pleading her case to Fiona, but I can't tear my eyes away from Tatum. I want to comfort him the way I usually do—to slip a finger inside him as a constant reminder that he is safe—but I cannot do that here. So, I offer him the closest thing. I grind my soft cock between his cloth-covered cheeks and imagine his naked form, trying to become hard enough he can feel me. The moment I'm at half mast, he looks over his shoulder at me and stares. There are questions and demands written all over his face, but he doesn't even attempt to voice them. He simply stares at me, his eyes pleading with me to make this right. How can I?

We do not move. We do not speak. All we do is simply exist in this moment, allowing the world to fade around us.

There's the sound of laughter, and when I look up, Mrs. St. James and Fee are sharing a joke. How long were we lost in each other's eyes? They seem to have gone through at least a hundred pages of Scotty's notes and plans. Plans he's apparently spent months making. I'm not sure if it's registered with Tatum yet, just how much thought his best friend has put into this double wedding. The longer he stares at the papers, the clearer the picture becomes .

"So, you've both been planning this for a while now?" Tatum asks, forcing a smile.

Scotty nods, refusing to look up. "Just a few weeks, Tater Tot."

"A few weeks?" Tatum's mother says with a snort. "We've been discussing plans for the last two months." Tatum's nails dig deeper into my thigh. "Wouldn't you like to come over here and get in on the action? It's your wedding, too, after all."

"I think," he grits out, closing his eyes and letting out a huff. "I would like to lie down for a while, if that's alright. The trip took everything out of me."

His mother looks at him with concern written all over her face. "If you're sure. Would you like me to fix you another cup of coffee and bring it up to your room?"

He shakes his head and hops off my lap. "No, thank you." I reach for his hand, but he's already walking away, muttering under his breath. He heads toward Scotty, and the twink flinches each time Tatum's feet touch down on the carpet. Once he's in front of Scotty, he holds his arms out invitingly. "Come here, Scotty. I would like to give my biffle a hug."

Scotty blanches. "Sorry, Tate. Wedding plans take priority over biffle hugs. Need our special day to be perfect." He grabs a sheet of paper and feigns interest in whatever's written on it. Tatum snatches the paper from Scotty's hand and glares at him.

"It's going to be a day you'll never forget." He takes a step forward, leaning in and kissing Scotty's forehead. His teeth are grinding back and forth, and before he pulls away, he hisses something into Scotty's ear that makes the twink shake with fear.

As Scotty whimpers, Tatum whirls around and marches toward me, grabbing me by the wrist and hauling me out of the room. Once we're in the foyer, he marches toward my bag, which is hanging off the coat hook where he placed it when we entered, and unzips it. He rifles through my belongings like they're his for the taking. Which they are, of course.

When Tatum turns around, he's holding the small black satchel that houses our finger cleansing products and as his serum. I haven't dosed him in over three months, but I like to keep a bit on hand, just in case. He holds it out for me.

"Drug me," he demands. My eyes bulge. The only thing hiding us from his parents are thin walls and Scotty's incessant cheerful laugh.

"Your mother is in the next room," I hiss into his ear. I need to keep my voice down. The last thing we want is her knowing sedative-play is occasionally part of our repertoire. "I'm not drugging you in your childhood home."

He growls at me before grabbing my hand and dragging me up the stairs. Once we're on the landing, he leads me to the end of the hall, toward a room on the left. The moment he opens the door, my heart flutters in my chest.

If there were ever a room to encapsulate a person so effortlessly, it's this one. The pink walls practically scream " Tatum! " The plush, pink carpet. Pink bedspread. Pink canopy curtains around the bed. Every inch of the room is bubblegum pink, and the sight of the walls that housed the man I love leaves me breathless.

Tatum whirls around to face me, leaving no space between us. "Abdulov. Look at me. I am an emotional wreck right now. Not only are we legally married, but I've found out my supposed biffle has been planning a goddessdamned wedding on our behalf for months. Fucking drug me. I don't want to think. I don't want to remember. All I want is to lie down and forget this day ever happened." He squeezes his eyes shut and bangs the side of his head with his hand. When I grab his wrist to stop him from hurting himself, he leans in, pressing his forehead against my chest, right over my heart. "Please?"

"Tatum," I plead. "You've asked me never to drug you again, I do not wish to?—"

"Dammit," he cries, shoving his face deeper into my chest. "Abi, I don't ask you for anything, but I'm asking for this. I can't handle this shit right now. "

"Oh, little one," I whisper, kissing his face. "It is okay. You're not in this alone anymore." I tighten my grip on his back and pull him even closer, needing to assure him. "You're never in this alone again. I have you. Lean on me. Let me be strong for both of us."

His fingers tug at my shirttail. "I just want to go to sleep and forget any of this happened."

How can I deny him when he sounds so wounded? He needs this. I can provide something that might make this easier, so that's what I'll do. I'd do anything he asks of me.

I take the syringe from his hand and uncap the needle. He looks distressed. He's sitting on the edge of his bed now, and his hands are folded in his lap. They're shaking. His entire body is trembling, but he does not flinch when the needle pierces his skin. He just lets out a soft, content sigh.

"We have to do something about this," he finally says.

Once the needle is capped and back in the bag, I place it on the bedside table and motion for him to stand so I can pull back the blanket. I guide him back into bed, propping a pillow beneath his head, and I scoot in next to him.

"What would you have me do?" I ask.

His hand touches mine. Just the smallest of touches, but it's one that lights me up from the inside. It's an unspoken admission. A quiet declaration. His touch tethers us until the only things left in the world are our beating hearts and that small, slight connection. Then, his body goes lax, and his eyes drift closed. I study him for a while, just soaking the sight of the man I love. Once I'm sure he's asleep, I send a text to Fee, telling her I am not leaving him while he's in this state. She sends me thumbs-up emoji in response.

Removing my clothes, I slide in beside him. I've undressed him down to his jockstrap, and his hole is within reach, so I reach for it, sliding a spit-slicked finger inside.

His eyes flutter open and the smile he gives me takes my breath away. "Daddy," he whispers, and then he's asleep again .

I wish he would use the endearment more often, but if this is all he can give, I will gladly take it. His eyes flutter open a few more times, and he makes declarations I know he won't repeat in the morning, so I try not to take them to heart. He talks of everything and nothing, making my heart skip a few beats here and there. Eventually, I fall asleep at his side, listening to the muffled voices coming from downstairs.