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“Rub it. It hurts.” I sigh but readjust on the bed so I can rub his stomach, the big baby. Secretly, I love it. I like taking care of him. I like that I can touch him sometimes, and I like that he only lets me do this for him.
Paul knows physical touch helps calm me, so he always makes sure to do something before we start warmups.
That possessive side of me likes that he reaches for me when he needs or wants something. There’s an easy intimacy that I don’t have with anyone else, and after being alone last year, I crave him being near me.
He’s not great at taking care of himself. So sometimes I have to do it for him. I like doing it.
OILER: Yo, big man, I need you to get a girl out of my dorm. P DAWG: So tell her to leave? OILER: But that’s mean! You do it. I’m pretty sure I can hear him sigh from here, but I don’t have to wait long before I hear the door open and Preston’s voice. “Time to go.”
Preston is my favorite 😂
“You’re mine. No one touches you but me. Do you understand?” Paul’s voice is warm but hard like he’s trying to keep himself under control.
“You’re my favorite person. You’re my person. There’s nothing about you I would change. You hear me?”
“I gotta get myself a boob.” The seriousness of that statement is impressive.
Worry eats at me the entire time. What’s wrong with him? Will he have to have surgery? Will he be able to play hockey? If he has surgery, how long will he be in the hospital? How long until he can play again?
Wouldn’t be surprised if crazy Nikki poisoned him
His hand flexes, lifts a few inches, then drops back to his side a few times before he finally reaches out and lays a hand on my shoulder. The touch has tears flooding my eyes and falling down my cheeks, but this time, there’s no body-racking sobs. I know he’s weird about being touched. Jeremy is the only one that can get away with it, and Preston doesn’t touch anyone unless causing harm, so this simple, comforting gesture is everything.
Ohh my sweet Preston 🥺
“I don’t like having to be the adult here, but right now I’m desperate to touch you.” His words are quiet, like he’s afraid of being overheard, but so full of need it hurts. “Please don’t make me adult anymore.”
“I love you, Brendon, until my heart stops beating.” “Then I’ll make sure it never does.”
“Uh, we only need one.” My voice shakes, and I brace for their reaction. Grandpa looks between the two of us and shrugs like duh, and Grandma says, “That’s fine, pick a room then.” Well, that was anticlimactic.
