I lay there in the quiet, my hand pinning his against my bare skin, and wondered how long I could hold on to a moment like this before it slipped through my fingers. I'd built my life to survive without wanting too much. Now, under a sky full of stars, I wasn't sure how to go back to pretending I didn't want more.
Chapter eleven
Eric
The taste of Wes still clung to my lips when I woke. I pressed my face deeper into the pillow, chasing fragments of the night before: his fingers lingering as they touched my jaw and the way he exhaled when I pressed my hand to his chest—shaky like I'd touched something deeper.
My phone showed 6:47 AM. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling beams, tracing the grain patterns I'd memorized over the past two weeks. Everything looked the same, but it felt different.
When I finally worked up the courage to leave my room, I found Wes at the stove, scrambling eggs. He'd pulled on red-and-black flannel, and his hair was still mussed from sleep, with dark strands refusing to lie flat at the back of his neck.
I tested the waters with a simple "Morning."
"Coffee's ready." His voice was no longer distant like in our early days. It was softer.
I poured myself a mug, adding cream while stealing glances at his profile. The tension that usually knotted his shoulders had loosened overnight.
When he turned to hand me a plate of eggs, our eyes finally met. Neither of us could look away until a gull's cry outside broke the spell.
"Thanks." I accepted the plate.
We settled at the kitchen table. It was the same scarred wooden surface, but somehow, the space had compressed and become intimate. When I reached for the salt, Wes watched my hands. When he shifted in his chair, our knees bumped beneath the table, and neither of us apologized or pulled away.
"Sleep okay?"
Wes's mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "Eventually."
I focused on my eggs, fully aware of every sound he made—the scrape of his fork against the ceramic plate and the soft exhale when he reached for his coffee.
The cottage creaked around us, settling under the rising sun, and I wondered whether Wes could hear my heartbeat from across the table.
"You know what's funny?" I set my fork down, suddenly needing to fill the charged silence with conversation. "I learned to code because I was tired of being Thomas Callahan's son."
Wes looked up from his plate. He angled his shoulders slightly toward me and paused his coffee mug halfway to his lips. He listened closely.
"Everyone in Whistleport had expectations about who I was supposed to be. I was the fire chief's kid and an honor roll student. Surely, I'd follow Dad into public service." I slowly turned my mug in my hands. "Then, when I was fourteen, I found this online programming tutorial, and for the first time in my life, I was learning something that belonged only to me."
Wes set his mug down slowly. "What kind of programming?"
"Started with basic web development. Nothing fancy. There was something about its logic, how you could build somethingfrom nothing using only syntax and patience." I leaned forward. "I'd stay up until two in the morning working through problems, and nobody could tell me I was doing it wrong because nobody else in my house understood what I was doing."
"Your dad didn't approve?"
"He didn't disapprove, exactly, but he'd walk past my room and see me hunched over the computer, and I heard him pause before moving on. I thought he might be wondering where he'd gone wrong, raising a son who preferred screens to service calls."
Wes tightened his fingers around his coffee mug. "That's tough."
"Ziggy was the only one who got it. He'd come over and find me debugging some impossible mess of code, and instead of asking why I was wasting my time, he'd bring sandwiches and sit there while I worked." I smiled at the memory. "He could see through my golden boy act better than anyone. Knew I needed something that was mine."
"Smart friend."
"The smartest. He's the one who convinced me to take the assignment here." I reached across the table for the salt shaker. "Said I needed to stop hiding behind other people's versions of who I should be."
Wes reached for the salt at the same moment. Our fingers collided over the glass cylinder, and heat shot through me like I'd touched a live wire. We both froze, hands tangled together.
I wanted to kiss him. The urge was so fierce it made my teeth ache. I wanted to lean across the scarred wooden table and capture his mouth, taste the coffee on his lips, and feel that soft sound he'd made when I'd touched his chest. When I looked at his face, I knew it wasn't the right moment. He was already thinking about the work ahead of him, maintenance and repair.
Wes withdrew his hand slowly. The loss hit me like cold water, sudden and shocking.
