| |
by Yolande Kleinn
––––––––
Lane bites his tongue to muffle a curse, fumbling the overhead length of pipe he's trying to hold in place. Dust tickles his nose, and he turns his head just enough to rub his face against his sleeve.
Nearby, Jordan makes the heavy lifting look enviably easy. It would be maddening if Lane didn't enjoy watching them work. As it is, he tries valiantly to split his attention between supporting his own piece of pipework, and discreetly appreciating the bunch and flex of muscles as Jordan steadily follows Lane's instructions.
The two of them make a good team.
"Now twist it clockwise," he says, struggling to keep his focus where it belongs.
Jordan stands almost close enough to touch, maneuvering with the kind of smooth competence that makes Lane feel superfluous even though he knows damn well Jordan couldn't do this without him. Jordan wouldn't know where to start—hell, they probably wouldn't have been able to distinguish the water softener from the furnace.
There's no shame in being hopeless at home repair. Lane came over to direct the project for a reason.
"How far?" Jordan wields the wrench a little strangely, but the inexperienced grip does the job. Their eyes are firmly set on their work, which is probably for the best. Jordan's soft gray t-shirt is damp with sweat, and Lane is having a difficult time not ogling.
"As far as it'll go," Lane says with only the briefest delay. "You won't break it." At last, the pipe in his hands locks into place, no longer needing his uplifted arms for support. He waits an extra moment before letting go.
The brick walls feel claustrophobic in this narrow corner. For such a big house, the place has a small and distinctly unpleasant basement.
Lane doesn't mind, though. For one thing, Jordan's always been helpless at home maintenance, and Lane gets a whole tangle of satisfaction out of helping them. For another, Jordan returns the favor in innumerable ways, guiding Lane every year through the morass of investment and taxes and anything involving numbers.
It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement even if Lane weren't thoroughly smitten. As it is, he won't begrudge anything that gives him an excuse to spend time with Jordan.
"You good?" Jordan asks, still acutely focused on the task. An unmistakable undercurrent of fondness runs beneath the question, and Lane barely restrains a ridiculous grin.
He thinks about Jordan's broad shoulders and even broader smile. Thinks about Jordan's spare house key in its permanent place on Lane's key ring. Thinks about Jordan insisting he keep the damn key after Lane spent a week sleeping on their couch, through a difficult breakup and an unexpected apartment search.
Lane thinks about a hundred other things he will not say aloud and stops fighting the grin. "I'm great."
Jordan must be finished tightening the pipes because they lower the wrench and give Lane a look of wry curiosity. One eyebrow arches higher than the other, thick and perfectly manicured.
Fuck. Even now, sweaty and tired from struggling with heavy pipes in a grungy basement, Jordan is distractingly attractive. Their dark skin and smooth, round face shine with perspiration beneath the light from a yellowish bulb. That same light makes Lane look jaundiced and pale, but he can't be bothered to think about his own bedraggled appearance right now. He's too caught up in the intensity of dark eyes, the tight coils of close-cropped hair, the thick lower lip caught between Jordan's teeth in apparent concentration. Jordan's wide shoulders and impressive height make them so much bigger and stockier than Lane's skinny five-foot frame.
Seeing them so easily handle heavy pipework makes Lane want Jordan to hold him down too.
Lane blushes and looks away under the guise of tugging loose his increasingly messy ponytail. He takes several seconds to retie it high on his head, so that he can feel the tug at his scalp. He fusses needlessly until the worst of the hopeless wanting subsides, and only then does he return his attention to the pipes.
When he raises his eyes, he finds Jordan watching him with a heavy, unreadable expression. The work is finally done.
"That should do it." Lane steps back to put an extra foot of space between himself and Jordan's piercing look. "Let's turn the water back on and make sure nothing leaks."
*
Lane loves his apartment. He loves the bright-windowed, deceptively open feel of the place. He loves the squashy furniture that he and his roommate have collected over the years, and the quirky metal light fixtures decades out of date, and the nearly perpetual sounds of bolero music that twine through the ceiling from the unit directly above.
He even loves his roommate most of the time, though this is not shaping up to be such a moment.
"I know the last guy was a disaster, but trust me, you will definitely be into this one. He's exactly your type." Meg states this fact with such unrestrained confidence that Lane is inclined to believe her.
But he also doesn't enjoy feeling called out—so he raises an eyebrow on principle. "What do you mean when you say exactly my type?"
She keeps right on twirling spaghetti onto her fork, plate perfectly balanced on her lap as she sits in the corner of their big couch. "You know. Huge. Strong. Soulful eyes and squashy hugs. He's a sweetheart. I promise you'll adore him."
The accuracy of her analysis hits Lane right between the ribs, and he turns his attention to the crusts of garlic toast left on his otherwise empty plate. Meg isn't wrong about all those things getting under his skin—especially lately—and that's the problem. He isn't looking for those things in some stranger.
He doesn't want to go on a random date with soulful eyes and big muscles, no matter how good the hugs are. The only eyes and muscles and squashy hugs he's interested in belong to Jordan. And while Lane doesn't believe love is a zero sum game—doesn't believe there's only one perfect match for everyone in the whole vast world—he's also not willing to put the weight of his endless pining on some dude who didn't sign up for his baggage.
It seems like a shitty way to start dating someone.
Meg raises her head, and even in his peripheral vision Lane can see the way her eyes narrow. "You're going to refuse my brilliant setup."
"I didn't say that."
"But you're about to."
Lane stifles a long-suffering sigh. "I'm not ready to date again. It's perfectly normal to stay single awhile after a bad breakup."
"You broke up with Cal three years ago," Meg retorts with all the ferocity of a homing beacon. "Which. Okay. Fine. Be single as long as you want, it's none of my business."
"Then why are you trying to—"
"Because I see you looking," Meg steamrolls full speed ahead, and she's glaring now. Her deeply tan cheeks have flushed with feeling. Maybe Lane's been using cheap tactics to dodge this conversation too long. "I see you yearning like a fucking teenager over someone you refuse to make a move on, and it's been ages. You're making yourself miserable. Eventually you've gotta own up or move on."
For several seconds Lane sits perfectly still, stunned at the blunt observation. He feels completely seen, and he does not like it. He knows his crush on Jordan has crossed some nebulous line from harmless into pathetic. He knows it happened long enough ago to render him ridiculous. But Lane has tried and failed to shut his heart down, and it can't be done. The only reasonable option is to keep right on squashing his feelings where no one—except apparently his nosy-ass roommate—can see, and pray Jordan doesn't find out.
"Has anyone ever told you you're fucking bossy?" he answers belatedly.
"I'm only bossy when I'm right."
"Jordan isn't interested in me." Saying the words out loud hurts, and Lane swallows hard. "Even if they were, how am I supposed to tell them how I feel when just the thought of saying all this out loud gives me hives?" Not literal hives, thankfully. But a whole lot of other twitchy manifestations of anxiety. Even worse, what if Lane says honest things and their entire friendship hitches and sticks and turns irreparably weird? What if admitting the truth fucks up one of the best and closest relationships Lane has ever treasured?
He's been in love with Jordan since he and Cal fell apart. He was a lost cause even before spending a week on Jordan's couch—even before seeing Jordan in perfectly coordinated flannel pajamas—even before he learned what it was like to walk into Jordan's house unexpectedly and be greeted every time by the most beautiful smile in the world. He would know if there were even the scrap of a chance Jordan returns his feelings, which means there's nothing for it.
Lane will just have to die of old age with this particular secret in his heart.
"You could write them a letter." Meg makes the comment with a dismissive tone, but there's a spark of intensity in her eye that tells Lane she's not joking.
"That's ridiculous."
"It's a perfectly reasonable way to communicate."
"I'm not writing a letter, Meg." All his previous arguments stand. If he can't put this information out into the world with his voice—if he can't tolerate the inevitability of rejection and awkwardness—how is writing a confession on paper any better?
"Fine." Meg drops the subject with a melodramatic slouch and an eye-roll, signaling that this is only a temporary reprieve. "Don't write Jordan a letter. And I won't give Grant your phone number. But this conversation isn't over."
Lane takes an especially aggressive bite of garlic toast and pointedly does not answer.
*
The conversation with Meg gnaws at him for the next several days—through coursework and research for his thesis and several hours of his part time job. Words are what he does. A linguistics degree isn't just fascinating for the sake of abstract etymology. The whole point is how languages are used, how they change, how they manifest meaning into something tangible. Now that Meg has put it in his head, Lane can't shake the notion that maybe writing a letter isn't such a bad idea.
He won't give it to Jordan, of course. There are limits to what Lane will consider, and deliberately humiliating himself isn't part of the plan.
But even knowing there's no practical purpose, his brain latches onto the concept and won't let go. It's tempting as hell—not as a confession strategy, but as a way to get even a fraction of his pent-up emotions out of his system. The notion has merit. Maybe if he writes this nonsense down, lets it out like a pressure valve, he can find a way past his infatuation. Figure out how to move on with his life without being constantly terrified of turning his friendship with Jordan into something irretrievably awkward.
Fuck it. Yes. He'll write the letter. And maybe when he's done, he'll burn it. Or bury it. He can come up with a whole ceremony, give the process some extra weight. It could be exactly the kick in the pants he needs to let go.
When Lane finally sits down to write—shoving aside a textbook and a binder full of notes in favor of a clean sheet of paper—the words come so easily it doesn't feel like his own hand doing the writing. Dear Jordan, it starts, and then flows right off the tip of his cheap, reliable fountain pen like he's not even part of the process. He loses all track of time, as truth after truth sneaks onto the page, filling the entire sheet before tapering off. The effort leaves him winded and drained, like he's accomplished some taxing physical feat, and not simply filled a scrap of paper with his messy scrawl.
Lane's study materials sit ignored beside him, pushed to the edge of the chipped little dining table he and Meg never actually use for food. He holds the letter, and it feels simultaneously light as a feather and impossibly heavy.
"You coming out tonight?" Meg swoops into the kitchen with a short flutter of skirt, her long legs encased in a pair of high-heeled boots that reach almost to her knees. Her hair poofs out in an artful halo around her head, and she's wearing enormous hoop earrings. It's a stunning ensemble—she looks so good Lane doesn't notice she's snatched up his letter until she asks, "What's this?"
He makes a half-hearted grab for the paper, but when she retreats far enough to sit in the other chair he gives up the chase. Even if he gets it away from her, she'll read it eventually. He's always been crap at keeping secrets.
No wonder hiding his crush from Jordan is wearing him down.
The silence is oppressive while she reads, but Lane holds his breath as he waits for Meg to finish the entire letter. He watches with desperate vigilance for any hint of reaction. She's trying to keep a neutral expression, clearly aware of his scrutiny, but she can't pull off a perfect blank. There are still flickers of her eyelashes, a faint crease at the center of her brow, a barely discernible narrowing of her eyes as she nears the end of the page. A dozen familiar tells, and he doesn't know how to decipher any of them.
Finally she hands back the letter. "You actually wrote it. I'm impressed."
"I'm not giving it to them," he blurts before she can get any ideas about Jordan actually seeing the letter.
Meg is quiet for several seconds before pointing out with uncharacteristic caution, "You could, though."
"Nope." Unyielding steel bolsters Lane's refusal. "I absolutely could not."
"They won't be angry," she says. "Hell, you know Jordan will be flattered, even if they're not interested. They wouldn't hurt your feelings deliberately."
Meg is certainly right, but it's not anger Lane's scared of. Regardless of the fact that Meg knows Jordan even better than Lane does—Meg introduced them in the first place—her assessment doesn't get him any closer to changing his mind.
"Yeah," Lane says. "I'll still burn it before I show them."
"You're a stubborn asshole, you know that?"
Lane snorts. "Takes one to know one."
Instead of tossing out a fresh barb, Meg locks him with a piercing stare. "Come out with us tonight. I'll buy you a drink. I'll buy you two drinks." She gives him a softer look. "Probably not three. I don't want to carry you home."
"Oh for—" Lane rolls his eyes and slaps the letter down on the table with exaggerated affront. "A guy gets wasted one time and you never let him live it down. Like you've never needed help getting home from a club."
Meg shrugs and winks. "That's what friends are for."
Lane startles at the click and creak of the front door, even though Meg always leaves it unlocked when she's expecting company. This will be the first of tonight's club-goers—all Meg-adjacent acquaintances Lane has grown fond of—arriving ahead of schedule, probably hoping to raid the pantry.
Lane shoves the letter into the bottom of his messenger bag, out of sight, just in time to spot a cheerful face rounding the corner. It's one of the new guys—Lane can't remember his name—tall and lanky and shimmering in a mesh tank top. He looks completely ridiculous, but also sexy as hell. Lane isn't one to criticize someone else's fashion choices; he'll settle for enjoying the view. Just because he's completely smitten with someone else, doesn't mean he's made of stone.
The kitchen grows crowded as more of Meg's friends materialize. The group is half a dozen strong within a few short minutes. There's chatter, singing, a couple of people remembering to ask Lane about school. One of them even listens to his answer.
Lane's head is spinning with the distraction of it all by the time Meg stands and announces, "All right, losers, out of my kitchen. Let's get going!" As everyone begins filing around the corner and out of the apartment, she casts a final look over her shoulder at Lane. "You coming?"
He hesitates only a moment, considering the offer—considering the dull quiet ache of staying at this table to study. Damn it, it's Friday. He has all weekend to finish putting together this analysis.
"Yeah." He stands with a squeak of chair legs across linoleum. "Let me grab my shoes."
*
Days pass alarmingly quickly when Lane is in the throes of a semester. He'll blink and Monday will be so far behind him he can barely see it, and suddenly the next weekend is ending, and before he knows it, two weeks have gone by and he feels like he's accomplished nothing.
It isn't truly nothing. His long-term research project continues apace, his assignments are getting good marks, and he is making at least a little progress toward studying for the next exam breathing down his neck.
But he also feels like he's perpetually treading water and barely staying afloat.
He's almost relieved at the prospect of an afternoon alone in Jordan's house. Even though Jordan themself won't be there—even though Lane would readily kick his studies to the curb in favor of basking in Jordan's attention and company—he still looks forward to the quiet calm of the space. Time away from Meg, and campus, and the library where too many people know him and want to chat. His work will be interrupted briefly, to let an electrician into the house and point them toward the problem to be fixed, but next to the literal hours of peace and quiet he can anticipate in between? That's no real price at all.
Lane would have agreed to do Jordan this favor regardless of the advantages. A grad school schedule will always be more flexible than a standard nine-to-five, and this is precisely the kind of favor friends are for. But it helps that he can expect a little extra space to focus in the process.
The empty house is silent and inviting when he lets himself in. Lane pours a glass of orange juice and takes over Jordan's big mahogany dining table. It's a relief to drop his armload of textbooks next to his battered messenger bag on the table. The usual pang of oh-god-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into hits him when he pulls out a mountain of photocopies and printouts along with his laptop, but for once the feeling isn't overwhelming. Maybe because he is here. It's impossible to enter Jordan's comfortably composed home and not feel more settled.
Even with the electrician's inevitable interruption, Lane finds almost unprecedented focus in his work. It's like slipping into a fugue state, with his papers and his highlighters, his textbooks and messy notes. He finds something unexpectedly meditative in rearranging the entire structure of an argument, a whole series of linguistic connections he hadn't considered.
He can't remember the last time he felt this intent—this productive—and the experience is invigorating.
By the time he hears Jordan's truck in front of the house, the electrician is long gone and Lane has made an even wilder mess of the tabletop. His work has spread into a chaos that only distantly resembles his train of thought, as he synthesizes vast swathes of information into what will hopefully be a kick-ass analysis for next week's assignment.
The front door opens, and Lane resists the urge to raise his head.
If he looks at Jordan now, the usual thrill of distraction will pull him out of his own head—away from the points of analysis he is trying to wrestle into coherent notes on his computer—and he can't afford to lose steam yet. His laptop battery is running perilously low, and he forgot his charger. If he's quick, if he's sharp about it, he can get this framework typed before he needs to shut down.
It would be rude to ignore Jordan completely, though. No matter how much self-preservation there is in Lane's refusal to look at them, he won't be a deliberate asshole to his host.
Without raising his eyes or slowing his fingers on the keyboard, Lane says, "What say I order us some pizza as soon as I finish this outline?"
"Counter proposal." Jordan detours into the kitchen to clink around in the fridge—the thud of the fridge door followed by the click-hiss of a pop tab—and then they're back in the open living room, a broad-shouldered presence filling Lane's peripheral vision. "I'll order pizza in a few minutes, because you're the one doing me a favor today."
Lane doesn't answer, both because there's no point arguing with such agreeable terms, and because further discussion threatens to distract him from wrangling his last few points into a potent concluding argument. It's with difficulty that he continues to ignore Jordan as they settle into a chair at the other end of the table. An idle rustle of papers reaches his ears, but Lane doesn't mind. It's not like he has any kind of coherent system to disrupt.
It takes him several seconds to notice the perfect and total silence emanating from the other end of the table. Jordan has gone suddenly, unnaturally still—they aren't even drinking the soda they brought from the kitchen—and if Lane weren't so, so close to this conclusion, he might spare a brain cell to wonder why.
But. It's fine. He's always worked best within monastic silence—it's why the library was his ideal location until it became too much of a social hub. He hones in on the final lines of his notes, breathing a satisfied sigh when he wraps everything up with a neat little bow.
Lane finally shuts his laptop and raises his head. "So what kind of pizza are we—?"
He freezes, question unfinished, when he sees the shock written across Jordan's downturned face. Lane finds himself at a complete loss to explain the incredulous expression. He hasn't done or said anything out of the ordinary. Jordan has certainly seen him lost in an academic fervor before. Dozens of times. Maybe hundreds. There's no reason for this time to throw them off their stride.
Hell, if they wanted Lane's attention, they could've said so.
"What's wrong?" Lane glances down at Jordan's hand and registers that they're holding a badly crumpled piece of paper.
It looks just like any of Lane's other homework, if a little more mangled. He stares, confused not only by the look on Jordan's face, but by their failure to answer his questions.
Silence holds for a heartbeat.
Two heartbeats.
And Lane abruptly remembers the piece of paper that's been floating forgotten at the bottom of his bag.
"Oh. Fuck." He jerks forward and snatches the paper out of their hands, pulling so hard a corner of the page tears away when Jordan doesn't let go fast enough.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..." Jordan starts, fumbles, then finishes helplessly, "It had my name on it."
Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck. Lane never planned on delivering the damn thing, why did he write Jordan's name on it?
"Yeah." Lane's mouth has gone so dry the word comes out raspy and harsh.
But he's not angry.
He's terrified.
And he's never seen Jordan look quite so shaken as right this moment, opening their usually smiling mouth to say, "Lane, if I'd known—"
God fucking damn it. This is going to be such a gentle rejection. It's going to be kind, and soft, and so very careful. Jordan will bend over backwards making sure Lane knows everything is okay—this confession isn't a threat to their friendship—and hey, actually, it's very sweet even if Jordan doesn't feel the same.
Because of course they don't feel the same. Why would someone as smart and steady and solid as Jordan ever fall for a walking disaster like Lane?
If he'd thought he stood a chance, he would've put that letter in Jordan's hands on purpose. But he knows better. He knows.
He can't sit here and wait for Jordan to finish speaking. The words will gut him when they land, no matter how thoughtful they are, and he's not ready. He hasn't had time to brace himself. He can't do this.
He can't.
Lane stands so fast his chair scrapes back and his head spins, dizzy with the sudden change in posture. He leaves everything on the dining table, turning his back and bolting for the nearest door. The back door. Out through the yard and the alley that runs behind the house, leading along a crumbly path to the street beyond.
The weather is cool enough to be uncomfortable without a coat, but in no world is Lane going to turn around. He curses on realizing he doesn't have his phone either—he left it on the table next to his laptop. Never mind the abandoned schoolwork and his wallet and his computer; he can't even call Meg to come rescue him.
So instead he walks. He hurries down one street and then another, kicking himself for being so fucking careless. He stumbles and wraps his arms around himself when the wind cuts a little too close. He storms and stews and remembers Jordan's disbelief in the seconds before Lane snatched the letter from their hands.
And as he walks, he calms.
The quiet that creeps into his brain is less a result of reason reasserting itself—his thought process is still a whirlwind of self-recrimination and embarrassment—than the simple fact of movement. Panic sinks gradually away through the soles of his shoes, easing by grudging degrees. The clarity left in its wake isn't precisely welcome, but it is inescapable. Jordan won't reject his friendship just because Lane has fallen inconveniently in love. Things will be awkward as hell, but maybe not forever. The most immediate crisis is the wound this rejection will leave across Lane's heart, and that was always going to happen. Either like this or through the slow festering of his secret.
Maybe this is better.
Lane can't keep walking forever. He has to go back eventually. Never mind the schoolwork, which he absolutely needs to collect if he wants to have any hope of finishing tomorrow's assignments. His car and phone and keys are all at Jordan's house, and he needs to face his friend if he wants to go home tonight.
Eventually, chilly and exhausted, he turns around to retrace his steps.
*
The return trip does not go flawlessly. Lane has wandered well past the part of Jordan's neighborhood he knows, and without his phone he has no map to guide him. He stops to ask more than one dog-walking stranger how to find the nearest familiar landmark, backtracking multiple times when he still manages to overshoot.
He's shivering with cold by the time he reaches Jordan's front porch. The sun has begun to sink lower in the sky, and he startles when he realizes just how long he's been walking.
The door opens before he can ring the doorbell, Jordan's broad bulk filling the frame. They look gorgeous as always, more casual now with their suit jacket and tie discarded and the collar of their shirt unbuttoned. Lane blushes even before he realizes that somehow—against every conceivable expectation—Jordan is smiling.
It's a complicated smile. Lane has never seen them wear quite so messy an amalgam of exasperation and fondness. And as they step wordlessly aside to invite him into the house, Lane crosses the threshold on shaky legs.
He thought he was past nervousness, but maybe he overexerted himself in his mad scramble to get away.
"I ordered pizza around the time I figured you'd be back." Jordan's mouth twitches higher at one corner, as they close the door and turn the lock. "Should arrive in the next half hour."
Lane closes his eyes for a second, drawing a slow breath and letting it out through his nose. Never mind how hungry he is. There's no way he'll be able to eat. Today has transformed into too much of a clusterfuck to allow for anything as normal as food. He opens his eyes, braced and determined. And even though Jordan looks very much like they're about to say something more, Lane barrels ahead before he can chicken out.
"I'm sorry about the letter. I never meant for you to read it, and I sure as hell never meant to make you uncomfortable."
"It didn't make me uncomfortable." Jordan speaks with such sincerity that Lane blinks up at them in disbelief. Then, before Lane can unscramble his brain, Jordan blurts, "Can I kiss you?"
The second the question is out, Jordan's eyes flash so wide Lane can only assume they didn't mean to ask. Jordan's expression broadcasts the unmistakable conclusion that the speaker is as shocked as anyone else at the words that just came out of their mouth. They're blushing so brightly that the flush stains the warm brown of their face and throat.
It's so sweet and unexpected that Lane forgets how to breathe through the sudden burst of affection.
Jordan wants to kiss him.
Jordan isn't uncomfortable with the truths revealed in Lane's letter.
Jordan also, in this moment, looks like they want to rewind the clock—and the suggestion of chagrin has no business being so charming to behold.
A wild grin spreads across Lane's face. He ignores the sensation of reality blurring around him—not much he can do about the rush of adrenaline making his senses go dizzy—and focuses on Jordan's question.
Lane is staring. He's been staring for several seconds, Jordan gawping back at him all the while, both of them startled.
"Yes," Lane finally manages to answer, still struggling to process the fact that Jordan read his letter and liked it. "Yes, for fuck's sake, please kiss me."
Quick as that, Jordan closes the distance and frames Lane's face between their hands. Suddenly the height difference doesn't matter, because Jordan is leaning down to meet him and guiding Lane's face to the perfect angle. Jordan's mouth is warm and soft and eager, an exact match for the greedy excitement coursing through Lane as he leans shamelessly into their heat. He has to reach even higher to wrap his arms around Jordan's shoulders, and doing so reminds him just how big Jordan is. Muscles flex as powerful arms wrap around Lane's waist and crush him close, lifting him onto his toes.
Lane gasps, parting his lips and teasing his tongue forward—delighted when Jordan opens for him. Joins him. God, the kiss is so good his head is spinning.
They part breathless and grinning, and Lane can't stop staring up into Jordan's face.
"That was nice," he says, after several speechless seconds.
Jordan's answering laugh shivers through Lane's body, the throaty chuckle skimming his senses like a caress. It's not a mocking laugh. If anything, it's a conspiratorial sound, caught off-guard and delighted. Like sunshine. Lane smiles even wider.
He doesn't know what else to say.
From the way Jordan's embrace loosens without letting go, Lane figures they don't know what comes next either. Clearly an understanding has been reached, but the question remains: where to from here? With Lane's previous partners, things moved quickly from kissing to sex. But he doesn't really care about sex. He's in no particular hurry, even if he has spent an embarrassing amount of time fantasizing about Jordan.
There will be plenty of time to discuss messier pursuits later. For tonight, Lane just wants to be here—keep understanding each other—and maybe figure out what to call this. He wouldn't mind falling asleep in Jordan's bed.
He wants to drive from here to campus tomorrow knowing exactly where he and Jordan stand.
But getting from Point A to Point B is a puzzle Lane doesn't know how to unlock. He wouldn't mind another kiss. A dozen kisses. But making out won't bring clarity, which means he should probably unwind his arms from around Jordan's shoulders and step back.
The doorbell rings, loud and singsong, and Lane jumps.
Jordan huffs a low rumble of amusement, and leans down to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of Lane's mouth. Then they step grudgingly back—away from Lane—letting go and leaving him no choice but to do the same. Even once Lane is standing solely on his own two feet, he spends a moment stunned and motionless before following Jordan to the front door.
There's a short, round brunette standing on the porch, deftly balancing an enormous pizza box on one hand and holding out a receipt in the other. Lane takes the pizza while Jordan signs the receipt, and even before he smells it, he knows what he'll find inside the box. Half pepperoni, half black olive, all pineapple. It's the exact same pizza he and Jordan have ordered every time since the first.
It feels like a ritual, which seems ridiculous no matter how Lane looks at it. The predictability of the pizza in his hands shouldn't make his chest tingle like this is something special.
But it is special. Jordan is standing there—closing the front door—making it special, just by existing. And when Jordan's glittering gaze meets his, Lane can tell they're thinking exactly the same thing. A pulse of warmth hushes through the air.
"Come on." Jordan turns toward the living room, mouth quirking in an unmistakably affectionate smile. "Let's eat."
Lane's heart beats faster, and he hurries to follow.
––––––––
THE END