Page 44 of Every November

Marcus

Heading into the bathroom, I turn the shower on and wait as the water heats. Evan is still lying on the bed, and I still feel the weight of everything I said sitting heavy in my chest. I don’t talk about my family, except occasionally with Josh and Dr. Patel. But I just handed all that information I usually keep buried right over to Evan as if it were nothing.

It’s a strange feeling, and I’m unsure why I shared it so easily. Maybe it was the way he asked me, as though he genuinely wanted to know. Or maybe it’s that he’s been handing me pieces of himself all year without ever asking for anything in return, and for once, I wanted to be the one who gave something instead of just taking.

I don’t regret telling him. But when he seemed like he wanted to talk about it more, I couldn’t let him. I’d already felt like I’d laid myself bare, and continuing to talk about it felt like too much. Besides, I don’t want to waste tonight talking about my family; I want to focus on him.

He let me get away with deflecting, too, and I’m grateful. Evan doesn’t seem like someone who would use that information against me. But I’ve thought that about people before and been wrong. Hell, my own family has been using who I am against me my whole life.

Fuck, I need to stop thinking about them. They aren’t worth my thoughts.

I turn back to the shower instead, sticking my hand into the water to confirm it’s hot enough.

“Evan,” I call out his name as I walk back into the bedroom to find him still snuggled in bed. “Shower’s ready.”

“Mmmm,” he hums. “I don’t know if I can move.”

“Three times was rather impressive.” I lean against the doorframe, watching him burrow deeper into the pillow. That’s exactly the effect I was going for. Looking at him like this makes me feel proud.

“Might need to just live here now. In this bed. Forget Seattle.” His eyes are still closed, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth. “You ruined me.”

I cross the room and sit on the edge of the mattress, and he immediately shifts to make space for me, pressing his face into my hip. Evan doesn’t guard himself the way I do. He’s just completely himself all the time. It tells me the world’s mostly been kind to him, that he’s never had to learn how to filter himself. And I’m not sure if what I feel is envy or relief that someone got to grow up that way.

“C’mon.” I brush my fingers through his hair. “You’ll feel better after a shower.”

“Fine.” He groans dramatically, and he lets me pull him up by both hands. “I think that third orgasm killed me.”

I huff a laugh. Witnessing Evan loose-limbed and spent is a treat. Every other version of him I’ve gotten—the eager one at the bar, the confident one riding my cock, the passionate one about work and his life—has still had some thread of composure running through him. This is different. This is a man who’s been thoroughly wrung out and fully undone in every sense of the word. I love that I did this to him and that he feels safe enough to let me see him like this.

I get him into the shower and under the water. He makes a small, happy noise the second it hits his skin, tipping his head back into the spray like he’s melting into it.

“Better?” I ask.

“So much better.” He groans in pleasure. “Wash my hair, please?”

“I think you can wash your own hair,” I dismiss quickly. Sex is one thing, but truly opening up and taking care of him? I don’t know how I’ll recover if we keep having these intimate moments between us, if I keep opening up in ways I’ve never done before.

Evan makes me feel alive, the same way he has every single time I’ve seen him, and it’s dangerous. But it’s my one and only night with him for the year, so is indulging really that bad?

“I could, but I don’t want to. I want you to do it.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“Sure, it is.” He shrugs. “I like your hands on me. Sue me.”

I don’t have a good comeback for that, and he seems to know it, so I press my palm against the shampoo dispenser, preparing to do what he’s asking of me. Mostly because I struggle to say no to him, but also because I want to.

“Fine. Just don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He tips his head back into my hands the second I start massaging his scalp, and he lets out a little moan. “Mmm, I forgot how much I love having my hair washed,” Evan says in pure bliss.

“Have a lot of people washed your hair?” My stomach sours at the thought of him in this position with people who aren’t me, even though I don’t have any right to feel that way.

“My mom’s a hairdresser. So she’s done it a lot over the years at the salon.”

The relief that slams into me is sickening. I shouldn’t care this much about something that has nothing to do with me. I shouldn’t feel my whole chest unclench over the word mom instead of some ex or hookup I don’t want to picture with their hands in his hair. I file the jealousy away under things I’m not examining tonight.

“Didn’t peg you for the jealous type,” Evan says, eyes still closed, as if he heard exactly what I didn’t say out loud.