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“Hen, please. For me. I need you to come first.”

It was the sweetness of the plea that undid him. Henri’s whole being seemed to unravel. His orgasm rocked through him, but it was a bone-deep affection for the man inside him that made feelings of bliss stretch and extend until his vision whited out. He heard as much as felt Dylan come, sounding feral as his hips stuttered inside Henri.

This is perfect. I don’t want anything more than this, ever.

When Henri next had the semblance of coherence, he was lying on his right side. The lights were off, and there was the distinct smell of Dylan’s citrusy hand soap. More importantly, Dylan was pressed against him, no inch of Henri’s back left untouched, with strong arms wrapped around him.

“Go back to sleep,” Dylan said around a yawn. He sounded on the edge of coherence. “I’ve got you. Promise.”

Trusting this more completely than he’d ever dared trust anyone before, Henri settled back and let sleep take him.

CHAPTER 46

The sun was already up when Henri blinked awake, its golden light warm across his chest. It was beautiful…but not as beautiful as the man curled around his side. Somehow, even asleep, Dylan had been careful to stay away from Henri’s bruise. He ran his hand through Dylan’s hair and hoped he’d fall back asleep to keep this perfect moment a little longer.

He didn’t.

Henri poked at the blackened skin and winced. The area was swollen and tender, hinting that there might be more than a bruise underneath, but when he stretched experimentally, he could move just fine. Good enough.

Restless, he slipped out of bed. There was no way he was putting his damn game-day suit back on, so he rummaged around for the first reasonable clothes he could find—boxers and a t-shirt that surely must be too big for Dylan the way it drowned Henri—and quietly snuck out of the bedroom.

After a stop in the bathroom, Henri went down the hallway to the living space, realized he didn’t want to give up lying in bed with Dylan to lounge around his living room alone, and kept going. Past the sprawling windows with their scenic views. Through the gameroom with the wet bar and movie posters that Dylan said he only used during parties. Ignoring the door to the back patio with its outdoor kitchen and hot tub, he went down the lonely hallway that led to the abandoned half of the house.

Abandoned was a strong word. The maid must come through to dust or something, because it didn’t smell off, and it was impeccably clean. But the row of guest rooms had the heavy air of stagnant space. Henri poked into one after the other, wondering if he’d know.

The first room had a tasteful green color scheme. Large bed facing the windows. Abstract art. But it shared a bathroom with the next room so no. He skipped the next room too.

There was a larger room that had a bit more personality. It reminded him of the brief glimpses he’d seen of Dylan’s parents’ house in North Carolina. Pastels. Not beach-themed, but desert landscapes on the walls and little sculptures of animals across the furniture. Their room, then.

The last room, the farthest possible room from Dylan’s, was almost as big, though Henri could tell the closet and en suite in no way compared. The room felt…off. Mismatched in some way from the rest of the house. Neutral gray sheets, but burnt-orange walls. Blackout curtains when there were none anywhere else. The furniture a little too well-worn for a guest room. Shag carpet instead of tile. No art at all.

So this had been Alexei Sokolov’s room for a decade.

“He usually slept in his own room, you know.”

Henri froze. A spike of guilt rolled through him because there was no denying he’d been snooping. Dylan had given him a full tour, of course, but he’d just pointed out the guest rooms with the same disinterest someone might point out a garage or pantry. They’re here, they exist, this isn’t where you’ll be, so it’s not important.

“Oh.” He weighed the pros and cons of keeping his mouth shut. But Dylan had offered the information freely, and he seemed to understand what Henri was here for, maybe better than Henri did. “Why?”

Dylan’s hands were buried deep in his jogger pockets, pulling the hem low enough to expose that he wore nothing underneath. He took a step forward and kept his eyes on the room. “He said he liked the view better. No sun waking him up too early.” Then he turned to face Henri. “But I think it made it easier for him to pretend we weren’t…real, or whatever. Like it wasn’t serious if he slept in his own bed or something.”

Henri did his best not to react. He didn’t want to hurt Dylan by showing how angry the idea made him, or making Dylan think he pitied him. It was always easiest to see things clearly once they were over, and Dylan was too nice (and had probably been too smitten) to think Sokolov was lying. Even if the lie was to himself.

“I’m sorry,” Henri said, because he was. It must’ve hurt to see Sokolov walk away like it’d been nothing, and then to start seeing all the ways he’d treated it like nothing the whole time.

Dylan shrugged. “There are some sorries needed, but none of them from you.” He looked away. “It bothers you that he lived here.”

“A little,” Henri admitted. “Not that you were roommates,” he clarified quickly. It wasn’t his place to judge their relationship, no matter how tempting it might be to hate how Sokolov had treated Dylan with such casual disregard. “It’s more…I don’t like ghosts.”

He worried that sounded foolish, or that Dylan might take him too literally, but Dylan nodded. “I get it. It took a while for it to feel like he’d actually left. But this”—he gestured to the empty room—“it’s just a room. It’s not his anymore.”

Henri looked at the room. It wasn’t completely true. It still had all the choices Sokolov had made—the curtains, the carpet, the paint—but he understood what Dylan meant. In many obvious ways, it was undeniably the room Sokolov had owned. But in many ways, it wasn’t. The room had no soul the way a lived-in, loved space did. A husk of what it’d been, left to neglect.

Dylan’s arms wrapped around him from behind. He buried his nose against Henri’s neck and breathed him in, sighing on the exhale. “I like that you stay in my room,” he whispered against his skin. “A lot.”

“I like that you want me there.” Henri leaned back against Dylan. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the kind of relationship where either party stayed around in the morning. “A lot.”

“Good.” A small kiss behind his ear. “Breakfast?” He grabbed Henri’s wrist and gently pulled him away. They didn’t bother closing the door behind them.