He made his hair stand up in fantastical tropical-scented shampoo-foam, and ran his fingers through it, luxuriating in sensation.

  Jason had been right, to an extent: Colby wouldn’t’ve minded sharing this moment, but this felt right too. Himself, his body, stretching and loosening and getting a tendril of sneaky conditioner dangerously close to one eye.

  He flicked it away. Caught himself humming. A song in his head.

  He let himself sing a line or two, with an audience of cheering water and curious aquatic tile. About being in love. Friday. Never looking back. Not caring if Monday’s black, or Sunday always comes too late.

  “It’s Friday,” he announced to leaping drops, “and I’m in love.” It wasn’t Friday, the drops pointed out—it was a Monday, in fact, the day after that Sunday-night awards show—but yes, about being in love. They all agreed on that.

  Colby smiled to himself, finished with all the hair—Jason did like it a bit long, nice for playing with; Colby had considered cutting it shorter after Steadfast, and had in fact got Will’s wild Romantic-poet mop tamed down slightly, but he’d decided he also liked the way it looked, framing his face or curling up or tumbling down—and hopped out.

  Clean. Naked. Himself. Whole, if a bit tender in spots. Stronger, perhaps, than he’d realized.

  He wandered naked out to the bedroom, considered clothing, opted for pajama trousers and a very specific shirt, and then, barefoot, headed for the door.

  * * * *

  Jason flipped a pancake. Stared at it. Breathed in cinnamon and heat.

  Colby’s stove—one of the few things they hadn’t replaced—was a chef’s stove in the same way the whole kitchen was a chef’s dream: belonging to someone who loved to cook and bake and experiment, and who had money to play with. Jason, memories of his Nonna’s meatballs and his mother’s cannoli resurfacing, had fallen in love. He was pretty sure the kitchen liked him back: someone who appreciated burners and cast iron and really good knives, and also someone who’d use those tools to cook for Colby.

  Colby deserved that. Jason and the kitchen were in agreement about this.

  He finished with that pancake. Slid it onto the plate to join its friends. Maybe too many friends.

  He’d also thrown together scrambled eggs—relatively simple, this version, trying to be quick but finished with red pepper because Colby liked spice—because protein might be good. And bacon, American-style because Jason had some very loud feelings about English ideas of bacon and Colby was American enough, after those years in California, to also like that.

  Might be a lot of food. Might’ve gone a little overboard.

  Colby needed that, though. Needed care and cherishing and comforting.

  Or maybe that was Jason himself.

  His vision blurred, briefly; he set everything down, swiped a hand over his eyes, rested palms on the countertop.

  Colby seemed okay, this morning—almost too okay, concerningly so—

  God. The memories. Colby white as graveyard snow and silent as grey stone. Colby staring down a conjured-up monster Jason could only imagine. Colby sobbing in his arms, crying himself to sleep.

  He tried to breathe. Difficult. Something ripped open in his chest, his lungs. The pancake tower gazed at him in fluffy golden worry.

  He couldn’t—if he couldn’t be enough, couldn’t do enough—if all his strength wasn’t enough, if he came apart now and couldn’t be a rock for the man he loved, who needed him—

  He had desperately wanted to stay up there in the bedroom. Or to join Colby in the shower, to gently wash all that fantastic hair, to help clean every inch of smooth skin and maybe leave a kiss on the adorable freckle near Colby’s collarbone, the spot Jason’s mouth always wanted to nibble.

  He’d wanted to be there. He’d been afraid, because he was afraid—

  How could Colby want that? Someone huge and hulking and naked, touching him—

  He couldn’t understand, at this exact second, how Colby could ever have wanted him at all. Intellectually, somewhere in the rational part of his head, he knew Colby could and did, had made that choice, had said so over and over. He believed that.

  The rational part of his head wasn’t the loudest voice right now.

  He’d seen this with Colby, or something like it, once or twice before. Once, the worst—the worst before now—had been back during the filming of Steadfast. When they’d both been upset, Jason had been frustrated, and he’d let his voice get louder, flung arms up in exasperation—

  He’d abruptly been petrified then too. Colby had just…shut down. Not as badly as this—he’d been talking, then—but not exactly present, snarled in the past, not responding to Jason as much as to ghosts. Some sort of dissociative episode, Jason’d guessed. Trauma. Flashbacks.

  He’d figured out—they’d figured out—that that particular trigger had been his raised voice combined with sudden unpredictable motion. He’d felt sick to his stomach about it, but Colby said it was all right, he hadn’t known, they hadn’t known. They were working on that one; Jason had to sometimes consciously remember that his family’s tendency toward cheerfully dramatic shouting followed by equally dramatic apologies was the exact opposite of what Colby needed. Colby was trying hard to be better about recognizing that Jason could be mildly annoyed about laundry that hadn’t made it into the dryer—Colby’s writer-brain had interrupted with a scene for the upcoming musical—without that mild annoyance leading to vicious consequences, physical and emotional.

  There’d been one or two others, none as bad as this. The time Jason had accidentally tied a knot Colby couldn’t get out of, wrists bound together and to the bed, and Colby had started shaking his head and said “No,” and had said it again and again, just that single word, until Jason frantically cut him free. That time they’d attempted sex in the shower here in London, before all the renovations, and that memory wasn’t one Jason wanted to revisit ever, thanks. He’d thought they were both pretty into it, and they both had been, right up until Colby’s last previous shower-sex sensory associations swung in and took over and everything’d spun from enthusiastic participation to a completely chilling lack of response and arguably even lack of consent.

  Colby said that that wasn’t true, he’d wanted to at the beginning just as much, and of course Jason’d stopped immediately upon realizing what’d happened, so that wasn’t at all the same. Jason, who had stopped everything as soon as Colby’d gone eerily silent, had had to try to not pass out or throw up, while simultaneously wrapping Colby up in a towel and rubbing warmth back into icy skin as blue eyes resurfaced and got more focused and aware.

  They’d done the remodeling, after that.

  But Colby had woken up and been able to reassure him, then. Had at least vaguely recalled what’d happened, how they’d gotten out of the shower, the sound of Jason’s voice.

  This time had been worse.

  Or he thought it had. Maybe. He wasn’t in Colby’s head. Couldn’t know.

  Colby had kissed him. Had said, I know what happened and why. I know you’re you and not him. I know that. I love you.

  Colby had smiled at him, and teased him about orders, and talked about feeling fragile but secure. Puzzle pieces. Glass. Spun sugar. Anchored in place. By cake metaphors.

  Colby liked cake. And metaphors.

  Jason loved him. So much, so desperately.

  Maybe he should’ve tried to bake a cake. Colby might’ve appreciated that. He could bake a cake later if Colby wanted him to. However many layers might be requested.

  The shower had turned off, upstairs.

  Coffee, at least. Colby needed coffee. Morning routine. Warmth. Vanilla and macadamia nut flavors. Ground beans. Rich roasted scents in the air.

  Jason lunged for a mug. The one he grabbed bore the logo of that children’s literacy foundation Colby worked with here in London, the one that got books into the hands of kids and invited them to read and recommend and pass along stories to others. In hopeful primary colors, it suggested he Share A Story With Someone!

  “I’m trying,” he pleaded to Colby’s mug. “I’m trying—I’m doing the best I can, I swear—I know it’s not enough, I know—but I love him.”

  The vanilla-nut waft of steam brushed his face as he poured. He wasn’t sure what that meant.

  He begged, even more quietly, “I just want to help. To be whatever he needs. Whatever I can do.”

  Colby’s voice inquired, “Are you asking the coffee for assistance? It’ll tell you the same thing I will, which is that you’re splendid and I love you.”

  Jason spun around. Barely avoided knocking pancakes across the floor. “You—shit—sorry! I mean—I thought—what’re you—you’re up!”

  “I am.” Colby crossed over to him, bare feet silent against pale kitchen tile. “I’m here. What did you mean, you know it’s not enough?”

  “I,” Jason started, and then just looked at him, really looked: drinking him in. Those bare feet, elegant bones under pink-and-blue plaid pajama pants. Long legs and long waist, and bare arms too, because Colby was wearing not a fuzzy sweater but a T-shirt, which…

  …which was one of Jason’s shirts. Dark green, with the logo of the local game shop he’d wandered into and left with some new amethyst dice plus an updated Wizard & Wyverns handbook and starter kit because he’d left his ancient copy in Los Angeles and Colby had expressed interest.

  The shirt was too big, but not ridiculously so. Their height difference wasn’t that much, just a couple of inches; the breadth, of course, was another question. But Colby’d managed some sort of stylish half-tucked-in effect that Jason would never be able to duplicate with any amount of effort, which had come out inviting and domestic and attractive. His hair was mostly but not completely dry, standing up and out in silky dark ruffles; his eyes were very very blue, and steady as they met Jason’s.

  “Colby,” Jason’s mouth said helplessly.

  “I’m here.” Colby came right up and put both arms around his neck, leaning against him. Jason gingerly put arms around him in turn; Colby smiled more, and added, “I meant it about the coffee. It thinks you’re absolutely marvelous.”

  “Does it?” He had the countertop at his back, Colby nestled against him in front; when he breathed he tasted coffee and cinnamon and also the fruit-and-sweetness of Colby’s shampoo. “Our coffee…is having a good morning?”

  “It wants to be here for you.”

  “Thought I told it to stay in bed. Stay warm.” He tipped his head, leaned in, offered a fleeting kiss. No pressure, but a promise. He’d always want to kiss Colby. No matter what.

  “Oh, well…specifically, the order was to put on something soft and stay warm. And let you take care of me. You said maybe stay in bed, as I recall.”

  “Did I? Is that how this’s gonna go, today?” Something invisible eased. A knot in his gut, a vulture on his shoulder. Lifting off. Catching a breeze like a gift. Colby’s smile hadn’t gone away. “Didn’t think you’d be up for that. Not just today, I mean, you’re not usually a bratty kind of sub.”

  Colby made a small entertained sound and leaned more weight against him. “I’m not. I don’t really want to be. But I am right and you did say maybe. So I’m not technically not listening. Besides, I wanted you and coffee.”

  “You can have both. Right here.” Grip maybe a little firmer. Just a fraction. Testing: and that seemed to be going just fine. “You wanted me? I could’ve stayed up there with you.”

  “No, you were right. I needed a bit of space, I suspect.” Colby did a little eyebrow-shrug at him. “It felt nice. Being on my own, standing on my own, for a moment. And then I wanted you, because I always want you. My bread loaf. And coffee-conjuror. And maker of pancakes with cinnamon. And—good heavens, how much food do you think we can eat? I know I’ve been eating more recently, but I’m not an entire medieval feasting-hall.”

  “I just…wanted you to have options.” Jason bit a lip, glanced over at eggs and bacon. “You know. Anything you want.”

  “Hmm. Did you want me to stay in bed?” Colby detached one arm from around Jason’s neck, leaned over, collected coffee, disappeared into caffeine without moving otherwise, and resurfaced. “Oh, yes, this…thank you for this. Would you like to help me carry everything upstairs, and I’ll listen properly and get back into our bed, and you can take care of me some more? That might be nice, I think. I could use that.”

  Colby had said that would be nice. Could use that. Being cared for. Jason straightened up. “Yeah. Of course. I can get everything. You don’t have to carry anything.”

  “I’m not relinquishing my coffee.” Colby sparkled at him over flavored morning indulgence. “You’ve made it for me. And I love it so.”

  “Um,” Jason said. “It—it loves you too. A lot. If you didn’t know.”

  He found a tray and balanced plates. Colby cradled the mug in both hands, a kitten given warmth, enjoying small sips.

  They went back up, sunlight at their heels.

  Colby settled down instantly into cupcake sheets and cozy blankets, collecting pillows, sitting up against the headboard. Jason set down the tray and sat down with him, because Colby clearly wanted him to. “You need anything else? Warm enough?”

  “Fine.” Colby picked up a fork, found syrup, poured. Maple sweetness pooled over cinnamon pancakes. “But I do need something.”

  “Anything—”

  “I need you to join me.”

  Jason looked at him. Colby lifted eyebrows right back, bite balanced on the fork. A drop of syrup held its breath.

  Jason leaned down and ate the bite. Colby wanted him to. “…not bad.”

  “Fantastic,” Colby said. “Which you know. I love you for all sorts of reasons, including your willingness to try to recreate the spaceship wedding banquet from the latest Alex Castle novel with me, in our kitchen.” He was also eating his own bite, and more. Jason’s chest expanded with pride. Colby liked his food. And his food was doing a good job caring for Colby.

  He put an arm over Colby’s shoulders. Poked at a blanket-fold with toes. Eyed the game-shop logo on Colby’s shirt—his shirt—and found a bubble of unreasonable delight rising in his heart.

  Colby nibbled at some of every single thing he’d made, and finished ninety-nine percent of the coffee, and then looked up from the mug, somewhat guiltily. “Er…did you want some of this?”

  “Nah, it’s for you. I had most of the orange juice. Go ahead.” He scooted more pancakes that way. “More?”

  Colby looked at the plate. Then looked at Jason. Then turned the fork around and held it out. “Feel free to feed me, if you’d like.”

  Jason felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

  Colby curled up against him, boneless and flexible and contented. “Entirely serious. You like it, and I like it, and I like you taking care of me, and I like food, which I know you know, and—”

  Jason judiciously interrupted the stream of chatter with a bite. Colby had meant him to, he was fairly sure.

  Colby licked lips. Smiled sunnily at him.

  “Oh, okay,” Jason said, “I can do that,” and did. Small bites, half teasing at first—Colby wasn’t helpless, and didn’t really need to be hand-fed—but bleeding into a more poignant emotion with each repetition.

  Bite after bite. A ritual. Connection. Belonging. Him feeding Colby, Colby accepting what Jason gave him, opening that eloquent mouth as if receiving a benediction. Colby safe and secure, well-loved and treasured. Surrounded by Jason’s care.

  And he would take such care. Such care, with this man. His magical courageous clever other half, who’d known without words how much Jason had needed exactly this.

  He said, quiet because of all the impressed admiration, “You asked for this for me. To make me feel better.”

  “Hmm? Oh…yes, mostly.” Colby sounded kind of drowsy, and his head rested against Jason’s chest. When Jason peeked down, his eyes had become a little drowsy too: not the transcendent bliss of deepest subspace, still inarguably awake and articulate, but getting dreamy around the edges. “For myself as well…I feel lovely just now…but yes. I did hear you, in the kitchen. Jason…”

  “I’m okay,” Jason said. He was, or was getting there. Because of Colby.

  “Don’t ever think you’re not enough.” Colby tipped his head back to look up and find Jason’s gaze, holding Jason’s heart there too in sweet trusting blue. “Everything you are, everything you do—it’s so much more than I’ve ever had. The way you touch me, the way you love me…it means so very much. And if you say it doesn’t, then—then you’re not listening to me properly. I know how much you matter to me, you see. And even if—if I’m not all right sometimes—you’re still here even when I’m not. Do you know how much that means? You wanting to stay with me. Wanting to help. That helps. I promise you it does. You’re all my baked goods. Breakfast pastries. Home. With cinnamon.”

  “With cinnamon, huh?” He had to say it lightly. Heart too full. He kissed the top of Colby’s head. “You’re happy.”

  “I am. With you, because of you, because of us. Who we are together.” Excitement hovered at the corners of floating submissive jewels: in those glorious eyes, in that glorious voice. “I did have one more idea. I’m not certain I’m ready for sex yet—at the moment I’m full of breakfast and coffee, and I might be a bit…what was my metaphor? Pudding? Wobbly. Trifle. With jam. Not quite balanced enough for sex. But soon, I think. Sorry, I’ve lost track of the first sentence, where did I start? Not with the jam trifle.”

  “You had one more idea, you said.” He had one arm wrapped around Colby; he rubbed Colby’s arm, liking the presence of his hand against bare smooth skin and toned swimmer’s muscles, under the edge of a sleeve. “Not sex. Agreed. Whenever you’re ready, whatever you’re good with, you just tell me when and what you’re up for. You’re in charge here. I’m listening.”

  He was.

  Colby glowed at him some more. “Oh, good. I mean, not precisely—I mean you know I’d rather have you in charge—but also in that case you might go along with my idea. I thought perhaps you should be naked, you see.”