Page 85 of Smoke Signals

"Fuck, you're here," I mutter, burying my face in his neck, inhaling that stinging reminder that he's alive, that we're both whole.

He speeds up, our cocks rubbing slick and urgent in his grasp, the wet sounds echoing in the small bathroom.

My balls draw tight, the edge crashing over me as I come first, spilling over his fingers and onto his shaft in thick ropes. He follows seconds later, his release mixing with mine, coating us both as he milks every drop with firm, unrelenting strokes.

We shudder together, the desperation fading as he pulls me close, both of us shaky and spent.

I back away before reaching around him to turn the shower on. Steam fills the small bathroom while we wait for it to heat up. Stepping inside, me first then him, the water pours over both of us. Stellan leans back against the tile and pulls me against his chest while the warmth washes soot down the drain.

I rest my forehead against his shoulder and listen to the steady cadence of his breathing. For a long time, neither of us says anything.

31

HARTLEY

Morning light slips through the thin gap between the curtains and spreads across the wall in a pale stripe that grows wider every few minutes. I wake before the alarm on my phone because my brain has already started moving. For a second, I stay still under the blankets and listen to the apartment around me.

Stellan is still asleep beside me.

He lies on his stomach with one arm stretched across the mattress toward my side of the bed, his hand resting loosely near my ribs where he reached for me in his sleep. The faint smell of smoke still clings to his hair even after the long shower we took last night. I felt bad leaving Alaska in the living room with the TV babysitter, but I needed to feel him, and had to make sure he was alive.

I watch him longer than I mean to.

The news footage from last night still plays in my head if I let it. Flames rolling out of windows, firefighters moving through thick smoke, and the reporter’s voice repeating the same sentence about injuries and unstable structures.

My hand moves automatically and rests against the center of his back.

Warm.

Alive.

Stellan shifts under my touch but doesn’t wake. His shoulder moves slightly as he takes another slow breath. I press my palm flat against him for a second longer before pulling my hand away.

I sit up carefully so the mattress doesn’t bounce too much, and the blankets slide down around my waist. Stellan makes a quiet sound behind me when I move.

“You sneaking out already?” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

I glance back over my shoulder.

His eyes are barely open, and his hair sticks out in every direction.

“I was trying not to wake you,” I say.

He shifts onto his side and reaches out, his hand catching my wrist before I can stand.

“You didn’t succeed.”

His thumb brushes lightly across my skin.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

The question sits there between us.

I know what he means.

The fire, the news, the way I looked when he walked through the door.

I nod once. “Yeah. I am now.”